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As a youngster, I consumed books until my eyes blurred. When my GCSEs arrived, I exercised the stamina of a ascetic, studying for hours without pause. But in lately, I’ve observed that capacity for intense focus fade into endless browsing on my phone. My focus now shrinks like a snail at the touch of a finger. Engaging with books for enjoyment seems less like sustenance and more like endurance training. And for someone who creates content for a living, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to restore that cognitive flexibility, to stop the mental decline.

So, about a twelve months back, I made a small vow: every time I encountered a word I didn’t know – whether in a book, an piece, or an overheard discussion – I would research it and write it down. Nothing elaborate, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, ironically, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the list back in an effort to imprint the vocabulary into my memory.

The record now covers almost twenty sheets, and this tiny habit has been quietly transformative. The benefit is less about showing off with uncommon adjectives – which, to be honest, can make you sound unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I search for and record a term, I feel a slight stretch, as though some neglected part of my brain is flexing again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and reviewing it interrupts the slide into passive, superficial attention.

There is also a journalling aspect to it – it acts as something of a journal, a record 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 maintain. It is frequently very inconvenient. If I’m reading on the tube, I have to stop in the middle, take out my device and type “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to bump the person squeezed against me. It can reduce my reading to a frustrating speed. (The e-reader, with its integrated dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), conscientiously scrolling through my expanding vocabulary collection like I’m studying for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I integrate perhaps five percent of these terms into my everyday speech. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “mournful” too. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – admired and catalogued but rarely used.

Still, it’s rendered my mind much keener. I notice I'm reaching less often for the same tired selection of descriptors, and more often for something exact and muscular. Rarely are more gratifying than unearthing the perfect word you were seeking – like finding the lost puzzle piece that locks the picture into place.

At a time when our devices siphon off our focus with merciless efficiency, it feels subversive to use my own as a instrument for slow thinking. And it has given me back something I feared I’d lost – the pleasure of engaging a mind that, after a long time of lazy scrolling, is finally stirring again.