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As a youngster, I consumed books until my vision grew hazy. Once my GCSEs arrived, I exercised the stamina of a ascetic, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that ability for intense focus fade into endless scrolling on my device. My attention span now contracts like a snail at the tap of a finger. Reading for enjoyment seems less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for a person who writes for a profession, this is a professional hazard as well as something that left me disheartened. I wanted to regain that cognitive flexibility, to halt the brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a small vow: every time I encountered a term I didn’t understand – whether in a book, an article, or an overheard conversation – I would look it up and record it. Nothing elaborate, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a running list maintained, ironically, on my smartphone. Each seven days, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the list back in an attempt to lodge the word into my memory.

The list now covers almost twenty sheets, and this tiny ritual has been quietly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with obscure adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you appear insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I look up and note a term, I feel a slight expansion, as though some underused part of my brain is flexing again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in dialogue, the very process of spotting, logging and revising it interrupts the drift into inactive, semi-skimmed focus.

There is also a journalling element to it – it acts as something of a journal, a record of where I’ve been engaging, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been listening to.

It's not as if it’s an easy habit to maintain. It is frequently very impractical. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to stop in the middle, take out my phone and type “millennialism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the stranger squeezed against me. It can slow my pace to a maddening speed. (The Kindle, with its integrated lexicon, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often forget to do), conscientiously browsing through my expanding vocabulary collection like I’m studying for a word test.

In practice, I integrate perhaps 5% of these terms into my daily conversation. “unreformable” made the cut. “mournful” too. But the majority of them stay like exhibits – appreciated and catalogued but seldom used.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much keener. I notice I'm turning less frequently for the same overused handful of descriptors, and more often for something precise and muscular. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the perfect term you were searching for – like finding the lost component that locks the picture into position.

In an era when our gadgets drain our focus with merciless efficiency, it feels rebellious to use my own as a instrument for slow thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d forfeited – the joy of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of slack browsing, is finally stirring again.