The best thesaurus
I’ve ever had
(and yes, I’ll admit
that I use one,
that I can’t
fire off
five-hundred
thousand words
from the front of
my fucking skull)
is a Webster’s
New World
Thesaurus
by Charlton Laird,
2003 edition,
one I had to tape
like a doctor
closing wounds
on the battlefield,
and I’ve been
hunting
for an updated
version ever since
(though mine boasts
it’s “completely new”—
a one-time truth
now faded lie),
well, sleuthing
as far as
bookstores
will allow,
and that a google
search will take me,
only to discover
Charlton died
in ’84,
making me wonder
how he’d done it,
invoking synonyms
while in a coffin
(or as a forlorn
heap of ash
in someone’s urn),
figuring
what to say
in place of life
though life itself
had slipped
on through his fingers
(well, if he still
had them that is,
boney as they’d
be).
I feel as if
I should name him
as co-author,
of all the poems
I’ve ever scribed,
knowing some
of the searing verbs
belong to him,
that I might have
uttered heart
instead of pith,
if not for his suggestion,
old rather than
seasoned,
which may have
caused my wife
a bit of offense,
the spark to end our
marriage,
though I might have
won her back
with my enchantment
in lieu of love,
that my little extra
effort
regained her favour,
a sprinkling
touch of magic
from the pages
in my hand,
that I’ve never
believed in ghosts
until today,
his sibilance of
nouns
providing rescue,
from another
tired lyric,
his antonyms
a warning
to watch my step,
that what I’d thought
was a flawless term
is in fact
the opposite,
that I’ll die from
embarrassment
if I use it,
join him in that great
Athenaeum in the sky,
our conversations
locked
in pregnant pauses,
each of us
trying to conjure
the perfect word.
Andreas Gripp
August 28, 2023
RF Image