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When I was a youngster, I consumed books until my vision grew hazy. Once my exams came around, I demonstrated the endurance of a ascetic, studying for lengthy periods without a break. But in recent years, I’ve observed that ability for intense concentration dissolve into endless scrolling on my phone. My attention span now shrinks like a snail at the tap of a finger. Engaging with books for pleasure seems less like sustenance and more like a marathon. And for someone who writes for a profession, this is a professional hazard as well as something that made me sad. I aimed to restore that mental elasticity, to halt the mental decline.

Therefore, about a year ago, I made a small vow: every time I encountered a term I didn’t know – whether in a novel, an piece, or an casual discussion – I would research it and write it down. Not a thing fancy, no leather-bound journal or stylish pen. Just a ongoing record kept, ironically, on my smartphone. Each week, I’d spend a few moments reading the collection back in an effort to imprint the vocabulary into my memory.

The record now spans almost twenty sheets, and this small habit has been subtly life-changing. The benefit is less about peacocking with uncommon descriptors – which, to be honest, can make you appear unbearable – and more about the mental calisthenics of the practice. Each time I search for and record a word, I feel a slight stretch, as though some underused part of my mind is stirring again. Even if I never use “eidolon” in conversation, the very process of noticing, documenting and reviewing it interrupts the slide into inactive, semi-skimmed focus.

Additionally, there's a diary-keeping element to it – it acts as something of a journal, a log of where I’ve been reading, what I’ve been pondering and who I’ve been hearing.

It's not as if it’s an simple habit to keep up. It is frequently very impractical. If I’m engaged on the tube, I have to stop in the middle, take out my phone and enter “millenarianism” into my digital document while trying not to bump the person squeezed against me. It can reduce my reading to a maddening crawl. (The Kindle, with its integrated dictionary, is much easier). And then there’s the reviewing (which I often forget to do), conscientiously browsing through my growing vocabulary collection like I’m preparing for a vocabulary test.

In practice, I integrate perhaps 5% of these terms into my everyday conversation. “Incorrigible” was adopted. “Lugubrious” too. But the majority of them remain like exhibits – appreciated and catalogued but rarely used.

Nevertheless, it’s rendered my thinking much sharper. I notice I'm reaching less frequently for the same tired selection of adjectives, and more frequently for something exact and strong. Few things are more gratifying than unearthing the exact word you were searching for – like finding the missing puzzle piece that snaps the image into position.

In an era when our devices siphon off our attention with relentless efficiency, it feels subversive to use mine as a instrument for deliberate thought. And it has given me back something I feared I’d lost – the joy of engaging a mind that, after a long time of lazy browsing, is at last waking up again.