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As a youngster, I consumed books until my vision grew hazy. Once my exams came around, I exercised the stamina of a monk, studying for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that capacity for deep focus fade into infinite scrolling on my phone. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the tap of a thumb. Engaging with books for enjoyment feels less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for someone who creates content for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I wanted to regain that mental elasticity, to stop the brain rot.

Therefore, about a twelve months back, I made a modest promise: every time I encountered a word I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual discussion – I would research it and write it down. Not a thing elaborate, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the collection back in an effort to lodge the word into my memory.

The list now spans almost 20 pages, and this tiny ritual has been subtly life-changing. The payoff is less about showing off with uncommon descriptors – which, to be honest, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I look up and record a word, I feel a faint stretch, as though some underused part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never use “phantom” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and revising it interrupts the drift into inactive, semi-skimmed focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping aspect to it – it acts as something of a journal, a record of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been listening to.

It's not as if it’s an simple routine to keep up. It is often very inconvenient. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, pull out my device and type “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to elbow the stranger squeezed against me. It can reduce my reading to a maddening crawl. (The e-reader, with its built-in lexicon, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently forget to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing word-hoard like I’m studying for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I incorporate maybe 5% of these terms into my everyday conversation. “unreformable” made the cut. “mournful” too. But most of them stay like museum pieces – admired and listed but seldom handled.

Still, it’s made my thinking much keener. I find myself turning less often for the same tired selection of descriptors, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Rarely are more gratifying than discovering the perfect word you were seeking – like locating the lost puzzle piece that snaps the picture into place.

At a time when our gadgets siphon off our focus with relentless effectiveness, it feels subversive to use my own as a tool for slow thought. And it has restored to me something I worried I’d lost – the joy of exercising a intellect that, after years of lazy browsing, is at last stirring again.