Words I forget 97 times
Words I forget 97 times
I read. I write. I occasionally employ a semicolon without adult supervision.
Yet there are certain words in the English language I have encountered hundreds of times, researched dozens of times, and promptly forgotten with the efficiency of a government agency shredding incriminating documents.
Take arrogate.
I have encountered arrogate throughout my adult life. Every time, I stop reading, stare at the word, and think, “Arrogate. Arrogate. Arrogate.”
Nothing.
It sounds familiar. I recognize it. We have a history together. We’ve exchanged pleasantries at several intellectual gatherings.
But what does it mean?
I have no idea.
Arrogate sounds like an irrigation system for wealthy homeowners.
“Mr. Henderson, your lawn is suffering from inadequate moisture.”
“Impossible! I installed the Arrogate 9000 with twelve independently controlled sprinkler zones!”
“No, sir. You’ve arrogated the neighbor’s water supply.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
I finally search for the definition.
Arrogate: To claim or seize without justification.
“OOOOOOOHHHHHHHH! That’s right!”
I’m delighted. Absolutely thrilled. I experience the same rush of excitement as discovering a twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of a suit I haven’t worn since the Bush administration.
I’ve learned something!
Again!
I award myself seven intellectual self-improvement points and resume reading.
Fourteen minutes later, I encounter encomium.
Here we go.
Encomium. Encomium.
Isn’t encomium a rare mineral? Something mined in the mountains of Peru and used to manufacture advanced batteries?
“Encomium prices surged 18 percent following a mining accident in the Andes.”
Or perhaps it’s a dietary supplement advertised during late-night television.
“Are you tired? Sluggish? Unable to remember the meaning of arrogate? Ask your doctor about Encomium!”
I consult the dictionary.
Encomium: A speech or piece of writing offering high praise.
“OOOOOOOHHHHHHHH! THAT’S RIGHT!”
Another triumph.
I practically leap from my chair and perform a little victory dance. I’ve conquered encomium!
For the ninth time since Easter.
I have an entire list of these words in Obsidian, my personal note-taking software. The list is called Words I
Forget.
Not Words I Want to Learn.
Not Vocabulary Development.
Words I Forget.
It’s a peculiar educational system in which I am simultaneously the student, instructor, principal, and elderly janitor who has misplaced his keys.
I originally created the list to improve my vocabulary. My theory was simple. Whenever I encountered an unfamiliar word, I would research its meaning, write it down, and revisit it until the definition established permanent residence in my cranium.
A sensible plan.
Unfortunately, my cranium operates like a poorly managed motel along Interstate 70.
Words check in. They enjoy complimentary coffee. They use the swimming pool.
By Tuesday, they’ve vanished without paying for the minibar.
Consider perfidy.
Perfidy sounds like an upscale women’s perfume.
“Introducing Perfidy, the exciting new fragrance from Paris. For the woman who has everything, including three husbands who are unaware of one another.”
Or perhaps it’s a character in a Victorian novel.
“Lady Perfidy entered the drawing room, accompanied by her husband, Lord Arrogate, and their troublesome son, Encomium.”
I consult my dictionary.
Perfidy: Deliberate betrayal of trust.
“OOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!”
Naturally.
I’ve researched perfidy seventeen times. I’ve written it down. I’ve pronounced it aloud. I’ve used it in a sentence.
And still, every time I encounter it, the word greets me like an old acquaintance whose name escapes me.
“Joe! Good to see you!”
“Heyyyyyyy! You! How’s the family?”
“Remember me? Perfidy?”
“Sure! Sure! How’s the perfume business?”
One particularly troublesome word is plunderbund.
It sounds like a new line of classic men’s clothing.
“Introducing Plunderbund, the distinguished menswear collection for the modern gentleman. Featuring hand-tailored jackets, English wool trousers, and our signature double-breasted waistcoat.”
I can picture the advertisements. A silver-haired gentleman standing beside a vintage Bentley, wearing a magnificent herringbone suit.
PLUNDERBUND. FOR MEN WHO TAKE WHAT THEY WANT.
Which, coincidentally, is remarkably close to the actual meaning.
Plunderbund: A group of corrupt politicians or powerful people who exploit the public for personal gain.
Well, now we’re getting somewhere.
I picture a Plunderbund boutique opening in Washington, D.C.
“Good afternoon, Senator. May I interest you in our new collection of Italian silk ties?”
“Are they expensive?”
“Not when someone else pays for them.”
Another word, sagacity, sounds like a municipality in Michigan.
“Welcome to Sagacity, Michigan! Population 8,412. Home of the Fighting Muskrats!”
I imagine the local Chamber of Commerce producing promotional brochures.
“Visit beautiful Sagacity! Enjoy our annual Walleye Festival, historic downtown, and the state’s third-largest collection of antique lawnmowers!”
The mayor, a retired transmission mechanic named Earl, presides over ribbon-cutting ceremonies wearing a ceremonial sash purchased from a Halloween store.
“Folks, I am proud to announce the Sagacity Sewage Treatment Plant has received a four-star rating!”
But sagacity means keen judgment or wisdom.
Which makes the fictional Michigan town even more appealing.
“How did you people manage to build a sewage treatment plant for six hundred dollars?”
“Sagacity, son. Sagacity.”
My biggest problem is the absence of a reliable retention schedule.
If I encounter a word every day, I remember it.
If I encounter a word once every twenty years, I don’t worry about it.
But certain words occupy an infuriating middle ground. They appear frequently enough to embarrass me, yet infrequently enough to escape permanent storage.
They are the vocabulary equivalent of distant relatives who visit every Thanksgiving.
I recognize their faces. I remember we share a bloodline. I even remember one of them sells insurance.
But their names?
Nothing.
I’ve considered using flashcards.
Every morning, I could sit at the kitchen table with a stack of vocabulary cards and test myself.
“Encomium.”
“Mineral?”
“No.”
“Medication?”
“No.”
“Roman emperor?”
“No.”
“Speech of praise.”
“OOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!”
Next card.
“Perfidy.”
“French perfume?”
“No.”
“Type of flooring?”
“No.”
“Betrayal.”
“OOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!”
Next card.
“Arrogate.”
“Sprinkler system!”
I might as well enroll in kindergarten and ask the teacher for a juice box.
Recently, I considered organizing my Obsidian list by the number of times I’ve researched each word.
A leaderboard, if you will.
I could even create an awards ceremony.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the First Annual Vocabulary Retention Awards!”
“And the award for Most Frequently Researched Word goes to…”
The orchestra begins playing.
“ARROGATE!”
Thunderous applause.
Arrogate approaches the podium, visibly emotional.
“I’d like to thank the Academy, Merriam-Webster, and the gentleman who has researched me twenty-three times without retaining the slightest idea of my meaning.”
I rise from my seat.
“BRAVO! BRAVO!”
The next morning, I open a newspaper article.
“The governor attempted to arrogate additional powers…”
I stop.
Arrogate.
Arrogate.
Good grief.
Didn’t I win an award for something involving arrogate?
I open Obsidian.
Search.
Read.
Pause.
“OOOOOOOHHHHHHHH! THAT’S RIGHT!”
Another seven self-improvement points.
At this rate, I’ll be a genius by Thursday.
Unfortunately, I won’t remember why.
