The Perfect Word.
The perfect word. The next word. One that fits. One that fits as if it were willed to the page. Cemented. Impervious to eraser tips and backspace backspace backspace keystrokes. Does it exsist? It must. Where is it then? Wedged deep down between the couch cushions. The metaphorical couch cushions of course. No the metaphysical couch cushions. No. The perfect word. Something that rummages through the memory's attic stack of yellowed newspapers with out tearing a page. Mummery. Strumpet. Glim. No no and no. A sentence written is a sentenced flawed. To think we might have strung a string of perfect words is to think we can recite pi, backwards. But surely we can go one for ten, one for a hundred, one per page per chapter per novel. Per lifetime. If we comb over a thesaurus with a magnifying glass. Excuse me? If we comb over a thesaurus with a fine toothed comb. The perfect word. If we are trampled into a bloody fossil-to-be by a murderous heard of thesauruses in heat. Does it exist? Should we stop looking. Stop geussing. And resign to our postions as the patron saints of humdrum. The arch bishops of hokum. We absolve you. We absolve you. Is close, close enough? Are the best of poets those that get the closest? Perhaps. Perhaps our works are already written, perfect words in tow. And the order is divined. Was not half of Paradise Lost written while Milton was blind? No matter. One man's perfect is another man's potpourri. Right? Wrong. We can not replace a Mozart A minor with a G flat. Or a "To be, or not to be" with a "To be or not." We can only keep writing. Pulling names from a ten gallon hat. Drawing straws from a haystack. Patching bad lines with word putty. Tired phrases that have worked in the past. Old friends. Or at least acquaintances. Perhaps some perfect words are among them. Stranger things have happened. The perfect word. Does it exsist? It does, i am sure of it. How can i be so sure? For if there is one better than another, then there is one better than them all.