A Poem — The Word Forgetting Blues. Enjoy.
The word was almost in her grasp
She tried to reclaim it but it refused
So the conversation proceeded without her
With one part frustration and two parts shame
She sometimes knows the face if not the name
No point grasping at straws
Best to graciously admit defeat
Perhaps it is merely inattention rather than some other cosmic force
Memories, like age, are piling up and shipping out
Departed for the coast
Doctor, doctor, kindly give her the news
She has a bad case of the word-forgetting blues
So the doctor looked her over and she took the dreaded IQ test
Nothing wrong with you, Madam
That a lobotomy wouldn’t fix
And then slowly it dawned on her, a week and a half too late
She grasped the arguable truth to her bosom, afraid to articulate
That genius just can’t be rushed
It will take its own sweet time
For patience is a virtue, all you need to do is wait.
Author’s note – I used to take such a long time to write anything at work. Everything had to be thought through in meticulous detail. One of my more sympathetic bosses once asked what was taking me so long. My response was that genius could not be rushed. For some reason, he found that hilarious.