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As a youngster, I devoured books until my eyes grew hazy. Once my GCSEs came around, I demonstrated the endurance of a monk, studying for lengthy periods without pause. But in lately, I’ve observed that capacity for deep concentration fade into infinite browsing on my phone. My focus now shrinks like a slug at the tap of a finger. Engaging with books for pleasure seems less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for someone who writes for a living, this is a professional hazard as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to restore that cognitive flexibility, to stop the mental decline.

Therefore, about a twelve months back, I made a small promise: every time I came across a word I didn’t know – whether in a book, an piece, or an overheard conversation – I would look it up and write it down. Nothing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, ironically, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d devote a few minutes reading the list back in an attempt to imprint the word into my memory.

The record now spans almost twenty sheets, and this tiny ritual has been quietly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with obscure descriptors – which, to be honest, can make you sound unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a word, I feel a faint stretch, as though some neglected part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never use “phantom” in dialogue, the very process of spotting, documenting and revising it breaks the slide into passive, superficial attention.

There is also a diary-keeping element to it – it functions as something of a diary, a log 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 simple habit to maintain. It is often extremely impractical. If I’m engaged on the tube, I have to stop mid-paragraph, pull out my phone and type “millennialism” into my digital document while trying not to bump the person squeezed against me. It can slow my pace to a maddening speed. (The e-reader, with its built-in dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the revising (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously scrolling through my expanding word-hoard like I’m studying for a word test.

In practice, I incorporate perhaps five percent of these terms into my everyday speech. “Incorrigible” made the cut. “Lugubrious” too. But most of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and listed but seldom handled.

Still, it’s rendered my mind much keener. I notice I'm turning less frequently for the same tired handful of adjectives, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Rarely are more gratifying than discovering the exact term you were searching for – like locating the missing component that snaps the picture into position.

At a time when our gadgets drain our focus with merciless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use my own as a instrument for deliberate thought. And it has given me back something I worried I’d forfeited – the joy of engaging a intellect that, after a long time of lazy scrolling, is finally waking up again.