it’s a glorious search, a tremendous
endeavor!—the countless folded dictionary
pages; the endless thesaurus tabs, thumbed
and bruised; the cross-outs and arrows and
pairs of parentheses; the possibilities…

the gray hairs and sleepless nights;
the hollow treasure chest eyes—

what takes moments to read
can take hours to write,
a humiliating hunt,
an indefatigable journey—
for the elixir, the sermon;
for the perfect word in the
perfect place, placed perfectly

we are bound by language,
it controls our every thought
(see Sapir-Whorf hypothesis)
but when you find it—oh my!
when that word is finally found,
after all your struggle and strife—
fitting like a key in a lock,
a dress on a bride,
like your hand in mine—
the ultimate reward may be for
you and only you, but oh!
how it pays off just the same—

how your soul belts melodies,
tones of golden freedom,
compositions—no,
symphonies!—of fulfilled soul

and when you come to find the word
you fought for and found—that
combination of letters signifying
an agreed upon meaning—only exists in
another language, when that assembly
of symbols representing an understood
concept epitomizes itself,
it’s even better—

it’s better than better, even—
it’s extravagant!—
even if that word is actually two words,
even if only to remind you nothing’s perfect;
that perfection doesn’t exist—
but irony sure as shit does.

(please excuse my French)