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When I was a child, I devoured novels until my vision blurred. Once my GCSEs came around, I demonstrated the endurance of a monk, studying for lengthy periods without a break. But in recent years, I’ve observed that ability for deep focus dissolve into infinite scrolling on my device. My focus now shrinks like a snail at the touch of a thumb. Engaging with books for enjoyment feels less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for someone who writes for a profession, this is a professional hazard as well as something that made me sad. I wanted to regain that mental elasticity, to halt the mental decline.

So, about a year ago, I made a modest vow: every time I came across a word I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an article, or an overheard conversation – I would research it and record it. Not a thing elaborate, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a running list maintained, ironically, on my phone. Each week, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the list back in an attempt to imprint the vocabulary into my recall.

The list now covers almost twenty sheets, and this small habit has been quietly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with uncommon adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you appear unbearable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the practice. Each time I look up and record a word, I feel a slight expansion, as though some underused part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in dialogue, the very act of spotting, logging and revising it breaks the drift into passive, superficial attention.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping element to it – it functions as something of a journal, a log of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been hearing.

Not that it’s an simple routine to maintain. It is often extremely impractical. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to pause mid-paragraph, pull out my phone and type “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the person pressed against me. It can slow my pace to a frustrating speed. (The Kindle, with its integrated dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously scrolling through my expanding word-hoard like I’m studying for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate maybe five percent of these terms into my daily speech. “unreformable” made the cut. “Lugubrious” too. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – admired and listed but rarely used.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much keener. I find myself reaching less frequently for the same overused selection of adjectives, and more frequently for something precise and strong. Rarely are more satisfying than unearthing the perfect term you were searching for – like finding the lost puzzle piece that locks the image into place.

At a time when our devices drain our focus with relentless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use mine as a tool for slow thought. And it has restored to me something I feared I’d forfeited – the joy of exercising a intellect that, after years of slack browsing, is at last waking up again.