for lack of a better word...

I'm not going to get much editing done on my novel tonight, I can already tell. I've gotten through Chapter 6, and I'm pleased to report that (to my eyes) Chapters 2 and 3 look largely all right. Chapter 4 might need a little maturation, like bourbon in a cask, plus some trimming and cleaning, like an oil lamp. Chapters 5 and 6 are holding my interest nicely. Perhaps I need to make the foreshadowing and inferences within them a tad more subtle. We'll see what that nice editor says. Like I said, I'm scared of that manuscript. It's like a hedge animal in a topiary that's still a bit rough around the edges, and I'm the gardener. Only the hedge animal is alive, like in The Shining. If I do it wrong, it'll tear me to pieces. Maybe I'll get to it after I finish this post. Yeah, maybe. Anyway, on with my story: I would not hesitate to assert that my brain is my most precious possession. Why, I couldn't do a thing without it. I've painstakingly trained it over the past 23 years to recognize obscure words, create fictive universes out of thin air, process abstract thought, make complex plans (and duly disregard them), precisely order my every thought and action, and conjure up vivid images of naked women at my command. However, I've lately become concerned that my vaunted mind has reached the peak of its performance, and is beginning to backslide. It appears, due to some disturbingly frequent occurrences, that my brain is no longer developing or smartening. Quite the opposite, in fact. One of these disquieting phenomena is my increasing inability to remember an appropriate word. When I'm speaking in an erudite manner (as I usually do), I will suddenly discover that the ten-dollar word I desperately need to bring the whole thing off eludes me. I've come up against these situations before, and my mind has never failed to supply me with a suitable and almost-as-erudite substitute. These days, I'm afraid, my brain merely fills the verbal gap with the first word to come to mind. And that word, usually, is anything but suitable. Consider the following example. Some months ago, before I left Korea, I was over at my friends' apartment. Adam and Elaine were my two English coworkers, and we'd often get together after work for dinner and a beer. I readily admit to being a little buzzed that evening. Somehow or other, we got to talking about plant sex. That is, botanical reproduction. Specifically, flowers. (I must've introduced this topic by saying something like 'You know why [wind-pollinated] flowers are so cool? Because they reproduce by spraying their genetic material all over creation.') Having successfully tripped through an entire lecture on anthers, and stamens, and sporangia, and pistils, and all that horticultural pornography, I was nearing the climax. I was in fine form, too. "So the male flowers open up, and if the wind is right, then all of the—" It was at this point that my mind failed me. I faltered suddenly. I couldn't remember the word "pollen." It utterly escaped me. This was infuriating. I desperately needed that word to finish what I was saying. But that mattered little to my stumbling synapses. So while my brain was fumbling with an ulterior way of expressing the idea of male genetic material, my mouth prudently opened and said "—jizz—" Two things happened in the next split-second which I don't need to tell you about. A & E burst out laughing and I, though chuckling good-naturedly, went red. I'd never said the word "jizz" before in my life. I hated it. As a rule, I dislike any crass slang term for biological processes or material. (Watch, everybody's going to post one in the comment box now.) Sometimes I have difficulty saying the word "sperm," even as it relates to whales. So to up and say a word like that, out of the blue, when my brain knew at least five other ways to say it which were more intelligent and highbrow...that was disconcerting. This happens to me more frequently than I care to admit. I'm not sure what I can attribute it to. It's a bit early for Alzheimer's to be setting in, and I wouldn't have thought the relatively small amount of drunkenness I've dabbled in would do the trick. It's exasperating, whatever the reason. And puzzling. Dumbfounding. Nonplussing. Bemusing. Befuddling. Confusing. Confounding, even. Well, maybe I haven't lost the synonym game yet.