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When I was a child, I devoured books until my eyes blurred. Once my GCSEs came around, I exercised the stamina of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that ability for intense focus dissolve into endless browsing on my phone. My attention span now contracts like a snail at the touch of a thumb. Engaging with books for pleasure feels less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for a person who writes for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that left me disheartened. I wanted to regain that mental elasticity, to halt the brain rot.

Therefore, about a twelve months back, I made a small vow: every time I came across a word I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an piece, or an casual discussion – I would research it and write it down. Not a thing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a running list maintained, ironically, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the list back in an effort to imprint the vocabulary into my recall.

The record now covers almost twenty sheets, and this tiny ritual has been quietly transformative. The benefit is less about showing off with obscure adjectives – which, let’s face it, can make you appear unbearable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the practice. Each time I look up and note a word, I feel a faint expansion, as though some neglected part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and reviewing it interrupts the slide into passive, semi-skimmed focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping aspect to it – it acts as something of a diary, a record of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been pondering and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an simple routine to keep up. It is often extremely impractical. If I’m engaged on the tube, I have to pause in the middle, pull out my phone and enter “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the person pressed against me. It can reduce my pace to a maddening speed. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the revising (which I often neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I integrate perhaps five percent of these terms into my daily speech. “Incorrigible” made the cut. “mournful” too. But the majority of them stay like exhibits – admired and listed but seldom used.

Still, it’s rendered my thinking much sharper. I notice I'm reaching less often for the same tired selection of descriptors, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the exact word you were searching for – like locating the lost puzzle piece that snaps the picture into place.

In an era when our gadgets siphon off our focus with merciless efficiency, it feels rebellious to use my own as a tool for deliberate thinking. And it has restored to me something I feared I’d lost – the joy of exercising a mind that, after a long time of slack browsing, is finally waking up again.