I pause
motionless
looking out the window
searching for that word
as if it would float by
or the different view
would allow it to re-emerge.

What is that word,
that idea,
of waiting
for a thought to come.

If it were on the internet,
la song streaming,
which then paused,
I’d know what to call it.
Buffering.

But my own thoughts?
I glace over to the rocking chair
with my daughter’s book bag
currently sitting in it.

Nothing.

I glance around the room
at clutter on the piano bench
or the kitchen table.

If I sort through this pile of papers,
or this collection of knick knacks,
will I find the word I am looking for.

As I try to conjure up the word,
I think of a grandfather that had Parkinson’s
or an uncle with Alzheimer’s.

But I’ve always been absent minded,
too easily distracted,
always searching
for just the right
word.