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When I was a youngster, I devoured novels until my eyes grew hazy. When my exams arrived, I exercised the endurance of a monk, studying for lengthy periods without a break. But in recent years, I’ve observed that ability for deep focus dissolve into infinite browsing on my phone. My attention span now contracts 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 profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to restore that mental elasticity, to halt the brain rot.

So, about a year ago, I made a modest vow: every time I encountered a word I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, an article, or an overheard discussion – I would look it up and record it. Not a thing elaborate, no elegant notebook or fountain pen. Just a ongoing record maintained, amusingly, on my phone. Each seven days, I’d spend a few moments reviewing the collection back in an effort to imprint the vocabulary into my memory.

The list now spans almost twenty sheets, and this tiny ritual has been quietly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with obscure adjectives – which, let’s face it, can make you sound unbearable – and more about the cognitive exercise of the ritual. Each time I look up and record a word, I feel a slight stretch, as though some neglected part of my brain is flexing again. Even if I never deploy “phantom” in conversation, the very act of spotting, documenting and revising it breaks the slide into passive, superficial focus.

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

Not that it’s an easy habit to maintain. It is often very inconvenient. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop in the middle, pull out my device and enter “millennialism” into my digital document while trying not to bump the person pressed against me. It can reduce my pace to a frustrating crawl. (The Kindle, with its integrated dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I frequently neglect to do), dutifully scrolling through my growing word-hoard like I’m studying for a vocabulary test.

Realistically, I incorporate perhaps 5% of these terms into my daily speech. “Incorrigible” made the cut. “mournful” too. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and catalogued but rarely used.

Nevertheless, it’s made my mind much keener. I notice I'm turning less frequently for the same overused handful of adjectives, and more often for something precise and strong. Rarely are more gratifying than unearthing the exact word you were searching for – like finding the missing component that locks the picture into place.

At a time when our gadgets siphon off our focus with merciless effectiveness, it feels subversive to use mine as a instrument for deliberate thinking. And it has given me back something I feared I’d lost – the joy of exercising a mind that, after years of slack browsing, is finally stirring again.