Retrieval
Oct 28 2025
The word escapes me.
No, not escape;
it’s there
locked into some neuron
beneath a tall column of cells
under layers of dura, blood, and fat,
buried
in the dungeon of my mind
with its synapse unplugged.
It’s there,
taunting me
with a false consonant or coy vowel,
some wordy work-around.
Can even be cruel,
dangled temptingly
then impishly snatched back.
And the harder I dig down
— like a dog
windmilling its paws
after some savoury scrap
mouldering underground —
the further it recedes.
But then, in sleep, comes to me
as effortlessly
as taking a breath.
I wake up triumphant;
reassured, despite my nagging doubts
that this ageing brain still works
— I may be slower
but I don’t forget.
What was the word, you ask?
Good question.
Just give me a second
I’m sure it’s still there.
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