Me and the Mot Juste

When words escape me

By Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle

I struggle, as every writer does To find the right word, But my memory is blurred By age and attitude.

There’s a large lacuna in my mind (I love the misty ripple on that lake). Some words the pass of time will always take. In my long life I have plenty to forget.

My oldest sister disagrees. It’s not your age, she likes to tell, You never could remember well. Well, I remember to forget.

I have these vacant moments When a name that’s dear to me escapes By drowning in those lethe lakes, After sputtering like whales that breach.

Some words go swimming out of reach, Others come and go like clouds upon the sky. I need a private verbatorium to help me try To keep them all from dying in the deep.

But I wander. Whatever is the word I seek? Is it detour or defer? No. It’s digress! Those interstices in my head, I guess, Keep coming back, (n. redundancy).

The fancy word I know I knew, The precious word that pierces gold, A sensual synonym for, say, ‘manifold’ (Just when I need it, it will sink).

So like any decent writer, I have a drink Of coffee, or of gin. I walk around, Then edit some other text into the ground. The trick, I think, is not to think.

Bazinga! Woozy words, their synonyms And antonyms come rushing from behind. There is a sympathetic synapsis in my mind And there it is, the word I couldn’t find.

The mot juste.

Note: All of Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle’s poetry that appear in Medium publications is collected HERE.