You are looking for the “right” word.
For a paper, an article, a story, a blog post, a presentation – – you’re trying to express a intense moment, a feeling, an emotion.
Words, sentences, paragraphs, a continuous stream flowing…your back and forth rhythm now rudely interrupted. You have hit The Wall. You can’t climb over without the Word.
It’s right there. On the tip of your tongue. Your mind is searching. You feel the Word. It’s Sizzling, Searing. The perfect Word to capture the moment, the feeling.
Yet, you come up Empty.
Your frustration grows. You use a substitute. You re-read the passage again, and again. The Word doesn’t fit. It doesn’t feel right. It’s an impostor. You go with it anyway. And it hangs, like an ill-fitting jacket or pair of oversized shoes.
Suppose we try to recall a forgotten name. The state of our consciousness is peculiar. There is a gap therein; but no mere gap. It is a gap that is intensely active. A sort of wraith of the name is in it, beckoning us in a given direction, making us at moments tingle with the sense of our closeness, and then letting us sink back without the longed-for term. If wrong names are proposed to us, this singularly definite gap acts immediately so as to negate them. They do not fit into its mould. And the gap of one word does not feel like the gap of another, all empty of content as both might seem necessarily to be when described as gaps. . . . The rhythm of a lost word may be there without a sound to clothe it; or the evanescent sense of something which is the initial vowel or consonant may mock us fitfully, without growing more distinct. Every one must know the tantalizing effect of the blank rhythm of some forgotten verse, restlessly dancing in one’s mind, striving to be filling out with words.
~ William James, 1890
And, then you read a poem that captures this, all of this.
Magic.
She’s gone and done it.
Where is the word I want?
Groping
in the thicket,
about to pinch the dangling berry,
my fingerpads close on air.I can hear it
scrabbling like a squirrel
on the oak’s far side.Word,
please send over this black stretch of ocean
your singular flare,
blaze your topaz in the mind’s blank.I could always pull the gift
from the lucky-dip barrel,
scoop the right jewel
from my dragon’s trove….Now I flail,
the wrong item creaks up
on the mental dumbwaiter.
No use—
it’s turning out of sight,
a bicycle down a Venetian alley—
I clatter after,
only to find
gondolas bobbing in sunny silence,
a pigeon mumbling something
I just can’t catch.”
- Elise Partridge, “Chemo Side Effects: Memory” from Chameleon Hours. (via literarymiscellany)
- Photograph: tdoeswool
- William James Quote via Sam Harris, Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion.
- Poem: Thank you Schonwieder
