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As a youngster, I consumed books until my eyes blurred. When my exams came around, I demonstrated the stamina of a monk, studying for hours without a break. But in lately, I’ve watched that capacity for intense concentration dissolve into endless browsing on my device. My focus now shrinks like a slug at the tap of a finger. Reading for pleasure feels less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for someone who writes for a profession, this is a occupational risk as well as something that made me sad. I wanted to restore that mental elasticity, to halt the mental decline.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a modest promise: every time I came across a term I didn’t understand – whether in a novel, 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, amusingly, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d devote a few minutes reading the list back in an effort to lodge the word into my memory.

The record now covers almost 20 pages, and this tiny habit has been subtly life-changing. The benefit is less about showing off with obscure adjectives – which, let’s face it, can make you sound insufferable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I look up and note a word, I feel a slight stretch, as though some underused part of my brain is stirring again. Even if I never deploy “eidolon” in conversation, the very act of spotting, logging and reviewing it interrupts the drift into passive, semi-skimmed focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping element to it – it acts as something of a diary, a record of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been thinking about and who I’ve been listening to.

Not that it’s an simple habit to maintain. It is frequently very inconvenient. If I’m reading on the subway, I have to stop mid-paragraph, take out my device and enter “millenarianism” into my Google doc while trying not to bump the person pressed against me. It can slow my reading to a frustrating speed. (The Kindle, with its built-in dictionary, is much kinder). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often neglect to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing word-hoard like I’m studying for a word test.

Realistically, I incorporate perhaps five percent of these words into my daily conversation. “Incorrigible” made the cut. “Lugubrious” as well. But the majority of them remain like museum pieces – admired and listed but seldom used.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my mind much keener. I notice I'm reaching less frequently for the same tired selection of descriptors, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Few things are more gratifying than discovering the perfect word you were seeking – like locating the lost component that snaps the image into position.

At a time when our devices drain our focus with relentless effectiveness, it feels rebellious to use my own as a tool for slow thought. And it has restored to me something I worried I’d lost – the pleasure of exercising a mind that, after a long time of slack browsing, is finally waking up again.