Perfect Word
© by Holly Lisle
All Rights Reserved
The perfect word lies
'tween the seconds
Dug in, crouched down 'twixt
tock and
tick
Sleek, round, and glossy,
Snarling at me from
Deep inside its darkened lair
It is right THERE
I see its red eyes glow,
Teeth flash
It snarls and hunkers,
Foams and spits
In onomatopoeic fits
I am so close
I taste its tang against my tongue
Nor will kind murmuring prise it loose
Vague cooing sounds nor wretched cussing,
Nor juicy fingers 'neath its snout
It won't come out
Its gaunt and threadbare brethren romp
Within my reach
I don't want them
But, tock
The ticking of the clock chivvies me on
More words await
I must be gone
I grasp sad second by the nape
And toss it in, dissatisfied
Rebuild my edifice to fit this lesser beast
And move along
Seven ... thousand ... seconds later,
Give or take a tock or two,
My perfect word erupts to loll
and gambol, smirking, on the green
Where I could pluck it up with ease
And let it shine for all to see
Except it does not fit the plainer wall I built
Of lesser words
It strolls away,
Insouciant!
And waits to vex another day
Writing seems to me like building a wall out of weasels and stoats, and
goldfish and crickets, and lemurs. And other things. Lots and lots of
other living, breathing, cantankerous beasts. Nothing gets along with
anything else; some words will only work in some atmospheres;
and,
you
think you
have
it right and then you go back and look over what you've done and nothing
looks the way you thought it did when you put it there, leaving you to
believe that every blessed word got up and moved around while you were
otherwise occupied.
And there is always one word that lingers just ... out ... of reach.
If you write -- if you have ever written
anything -- odds are you know this word, or one of its vile
kin.
This
poem, in
raw form woke me up this morning at
4:59 AM, (nasty little beast), when I had planned to sleep
in until 6.
(June 8, 2004)
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