In the room in which the elephant is, is Adjective in her prime. Words like ‘big’ and ‘tall’ and ‘grey’ are spouted all the time. Adverb doesn’t do so well, with verbs in short supply, the elephant doesn’t do much, and Adverb wonders why. Preposition’s better placed, for in this room there is the space, to juggle with the topic yet not look it in the face.
Metaphor is challenged - it’s a risky enterprise, to clearly draw an elephant but do so in disguise. Sometimes Metaphor has, a friend in Simile, an ally in illusion, though she can sometimes be…a little too transparent, she speaks too honestly; translating the unmentionable, by naming A and B! Oblique is in his element, he speaks slightly off side, never getting to the point, but always veering wide.
Noun of course is not invited, rarely is she ever sighted; for it’s the essence of this game, to NOT give our big friend a name. She sometimes tries to gatecrash, but the room is well defended; if noun should try to raise her voice, she’s quickly apprehended. Hiatus jumps in swiftly and leads her to the door. A pause, while the status quo is silently restored.
Copyright Phyllida Alexander 14th September 2021
I stumble mid-phrase, rack my brain, think again. But I come up blank.
What is that word?
I could sub it with another but it won’t be quite the same. The player on the benches always plays a different game. The understudy, on the whole, though very talented truth be tol’, won’t play the leading lady’s role, with quite the same poise or flair. I shut my eyes tightly and focus, on this gap of mine [where the track ran out] leaving holes in the line which is now frustratingly late in time.
I visualise the scene where I last heard it spoken, simply, flippantly, just like that. I trace out its context, its meaning. Precisely construed, with colour imbued, understanding ensued. Easy! Then, I took it for granted, Now if only I could find it, I’d honour and delight in it, no more have to fight for it. Sigh. I ask around: ‘Have you seen this word?’ ’Do you know its name?’ Do you recognise its shadow - I’ve no photo - that’s a shame. I didn’t take its picture, or get its autograph, I’ve nothing concrete by which to remember - no printed epitaph.
I consult its inner circle - its synonymic friends. ‘Have you spoken to it lately?’ Who might it be convening with? I write to its department with a ‘For Attention Of’, hoping for a personal reply. That it might sign its name at the bottom – I’d get spelling and all, on the sly. But instead it’s an ‘out of office’… with no reassuring message that it’s just on holiday. Or on temporary leave, or sabbatical with pay. No comfort then that it will come, to soothe the aching, throbbing on the tip of my tongue.
Has it been abducted? Is it being held hostage? What do they want?
I interrogate its antonyms, Those verbs with eternally opposite perspective, with whom it will never agree, that’re destined to contradict it, quite antagonistically.
I meticulously build the jigsaw around it, leaving a single remaining space to fit it perfectly, like a bespoke suit. To cloak its letters, caress its form, frame its features - I can almost, nearly see it. But the space is only a shape - lying empty waiting. And me, I lie in wait for it to arrive, to slip into place, enticed by this irresistible linguistic context. But of course it is too clever. Or too sensitive.
So I send out a search party with an A to Z map. Determined to track it down or lure it to my trap. I desperately write out letters and in passing I ask each one ‘where would it go, it is near and lying low or has it gone to profit foreign tongues. Did you send it on its way? Of course, why not go out to play. But then why not also stay - as well as go.
For the superpower of the word, is its omnipresent trait, its only functional limit that language is not innate. It requires an introduction to ears (and eyes - preferably) and brain, then it offers lifelong friendship, for whenever you meet again. Word, I’m really sorry that my ears and eyes forgot, but my brain it really misses you - a lot.
I continue to question the parchment and the pen: was it looking stressed, or fearlessly bold? Was it warmly dressed, or thin and cold? Was it wandering aimlessly, miserable that my grey matter had so carelessly neglected it? Or, did it have great plans? Was it serious in roman times or childishly comically sans. What clothing was it wearing and did it suit its style. I only hope it’s happy and that we might be reconciled.
Where is that word?
Breathe in and almost taste it, locked up in senses and memories. But it’s like smoking my favourite food (deliciously, completely, present in my chest, but unavailable as ever to chew on or digest). My tongue tries to hook it, like a butterfly in a net, to tame and train and hold it and return it to my brain But, to no avail. Was it never nearly there at all? Is the only explanation for this ‘nearly there’ sensation, not semantic integration but simply an optimistic, overactive, hopeful, somewhat romantic and deep imagination?
Like the back end of a storm, it passes by, exiting stage left and disappearing behind the curtain. And its urgent presence fades. No longer represented by visual cue, and as consciously irretrievable too. No curly Cs or Ss or As, no pointy Ts or kicking Ks. No concrete symbol to file away, just an abstract memory that haunts me today.
Frustration - almost physically painful. Ducking and diving and dithering, teasing yet never delivering. Like an appetite unsatisfied, a climax never reached, a cadence interrupted, a sermon never…..well, like the last page was ripped out; Pavlov’s dog salivating to an empty bowl.
It’s taken on the importance of the biblical prodigal son. Or the sheep that was lost or the golden coin, since, when all is said and done; Told by another the meaning’s obscured, sounds inadequate, silly, absurd; The glass slipper just simply won’t fit… oh, what on earth is that word?
Copyright Phyllida Alexander 14th September 2021