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As a youngster, I consumed books until my eyes grew hazy. When my GCSEs arrived, I exercised the stamina of a ascetic, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that capacity for deep focus fade into infinite browsing on my phone. My focus now shrinks like a slug at the touch of a finger. Engaging with books for enjoyment feels less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for a person who writes for a profession, this is a professional hazard as well as something that left me disheartened. I aimed to regain that mental elasticity, to stop the mental decline.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a modest vow: every time I came across a term I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an piece, or an casual discussion – I would research it and write it down. Nothing fancy, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a running list maintained, ironically, on my smartphone. Each seven days, I’d spend a few moments reading the list back in an attempt to lodge the word into my memory.

The record now spans almost 20 pages, and this tiny habit has been subtly transformative. The benefit is less about peacocking with uncommon adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you sound unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the ritual. Each time I search for and note a word, I feel a slight expansion, as though some neglected part of my mind is flexing again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in dialogue, the very process of noticing, logging and revising it interrupts the slide into inactive, semi-skimmed attention.

There is also 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 hearing.

It's not as if it’s an simple routine to maintain. It is frequently extremely impractical. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, take out my phone and type “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to elbow the stranger pressed against me. It can reduce my pace to a frustrating crawl. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the revising (which I frequently forget to do), dutifully browsing through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I incorporate perhaps 5% of these terms into my everyday conversation. “Incorrigible” made the cut. “Lugubrious” too. But most of them remain like museum pieces – admired and listed but rarely used.

Still, it’s rendered my thinking much keener. I notice I'm turning less often for the same overused selection of adjectives, and more often for something precise and strong. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the perfect term you were seeking – like finding the lost puzzle piece that locks the picture into position.

In an era when our devices drain our focus with relentless efficiency, it feels subversive to use mine as a instrument for slow thought. And it has restored to me something I worried I’d lost – the joy of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of slack scrolling, is at last waking up again.