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When I was a youngster, I devoured books until my eyes blurred. Once my exams arrived, I demonstrated the endurance of a monk, revising for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve observed that capacity for intense focus fade into endless scrolling on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a snail at the tap of a finger. Reading for pleasure feels less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for a person who creates content for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that left me disheartened. I wanted to regain that cognitive flexibility, to halt the mental decline.

So, about a twelve months back, I made a small promise: every time I came across a word I didn’t know – whether in a novel, an article, or an casual discussion – I would research it and write it down. Not a thing elaborate, no elegant notebook or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my smartphone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few moments reviewing the list back in an attempt to lodge the word into my recall.

The record now covers almost 20 pages, and this tiny ritual has been subtly transformative. The payoff is less about showing off with uncommon descriptors – 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 stretch, as though some underused part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never deploy “eidolon” in conversation, the very process of noticing, logging and revising it breaks the slide into inactive, semi-skimmed focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping aspect to it – it acts as something of a diary, a log of where I’ve been reading, 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 frequently extremely impractical. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, pull out my phone and enter “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to elbow the stranger squeezed against me. It can slow my pace to a maddening crawl. (The Kindle, with its built-in dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing word-hoard like I’m preparing for a word test.

In practice, I integrate perhaps five percent of these words into my everyday speech. “unreformable” made the cut. “mournful” as well. But the majority of them stay like museum pieces – admired and listed but seldom used.

Nevertheless, it’s made my thinking much sharper. I notice I'm reaching less frequently for the same tired selection of adjectives, and more frequently for something exact and muscular. Rarely are more gratifying than discovering the exact word you were seeking – like finding the missing component that locks the picture into place.

In an era when our gadgets drain our focus with merciless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use mine as a tool for deliberate thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d forfeited – the pleasure of exercising a intellect that, after a long time of lazy browsing, is finally stirring again.