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As a youngster, I consumed books until my vision grew hazy. Once my exams came around, I demonstrated the stamina of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that ability for intense concentration dissolve into endless browsing on my phone. My attention span now contracts like a slug at the touch of a thumb. Engaging with books for pleasure feels less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for a person who creates content for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that left me disheartened. I wanted to restore that mental elasticity, to halt the mental decline.

So, about a year ago, I made a small vow: every time I encountered a word I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual conversation – I would research it and record it. Nothing fancy, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each week, I’d spend a few minutes reading the list back in an attempt to imprint the word into my memory.

The list now spans almost 20 pages, and this tiny ritual has been subtly transformative. The payoff is less about showing off with obscure adjectives – which, let’s face it, can make you sound unbearable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the practice. Each time I look up and note a word, I feel a slight stretch, as though some neglected part of my brain is flexing again. Even if I never deploy “eidolon” in dialogue, the very process of noticing, documenting and revising it interrupts the slide into passive, superficial attention.

There is also a diary-keeping aspect to it – it functions as something of a diary, a record of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an easy routine to maintain. It is often extremely impractical. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, pull out my phone and type “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the stranger pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a frustrating crawl. (The e-reader, with its built-in dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my expanding word-hoard like I’m studying for a vocabulary test.

In practice, I integrate perhaps 5% of these terms into my everyday conversation. “unreformable” was adopted. “Lugubrious” as well. But most of them stay like exhibits – appreciated and listed but rarely used.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much sharper. I find myself reaching less frequently for the same overused handful of adjectives, and more frequently for something precise and muscular. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the perfect word you were seeking – like finding the lost puzzle piece that snaps the image into place.

At a time when our gadgets siphon off our focus with merciless efficiency, it feels rebellious to use mine as a instrument for slow thought. And it has given me back something I worried I’d lost – the pleasure of exercising a intellect that, after years of slack scrolling, is finally stirring again.