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When I was a youngster, I consumed books until my eyes grew hazy. Once my exams came around, I demonstrated the stamina of a monk, studying for lengthy periods without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that ability for deep concentration dissolve into endless scrolling on my device. My attention span now shrinks like a slug at the tap of a thumb. Engaging with books for enjoyment seems less like nourishment and more like endurance training. And for a person who writes 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 brain rot.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a modest vow: every time I encountered a term I didn’t know – whether in a book, an article, or an casual conversation – I would look it up and record it. Nothing elaborate, no elegant notebook or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record kept, ironically, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d devote a few moments reading the list back in an attempt to lodge the vocabulary into my memory.

The record now covers almost 20 pages, and this tiny habit has been subtly transformative. The payoff is less about peacocking 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 record a term, I feel a slight stretch, as though some neglected part of my mind is flexing again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in dialogue, the very process of noticing, logging and revising it interrupts the drift into inactive, semi-skimmed focus.

Additionally, there's a journalling element to it – it acts as something of a journal, a log of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been listening to.

It's not as if it’s an easy routine to keep up. It is often very impractical. If I’m engaged on the subway, I have to pause mid-paragraph, pull out my device and enter “millennialism” into my digital document while trying not to bump the person squeezed against me. It can reduce my reading to a maddening speed. (The Kindle, with its built-in dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the revising (which I frequently forget to do), dutifully scrolling through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a vocabulary test.

In practice, I incorporate maybe five percent of these terms into my daily speech. “Incorrigible” made the cut. “Lugubrious” as well. But most of them remain like museum pieces – appreciated and listed but seldom handled.

Nevertheless, it’s made my mind much sharper. I find myself turning less frequently for the same tired selection of descriptors, and more often for something precise and strong. Few things are more satisfying than unearthing the exact word you were seeking – like finding the missing puzzle piece 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 slow thinking. And it has given me back something I worried I’d lost – the joy of exercising a intellect that, after a long time of slack browsing, is at last stirring again.