That word. The one in a million. It fits like the last piece in a jigsaw. But it….it….eludes, that’s it, eludes the grasp of memory. It is like running to catch a bus in a dream, like a bit of jam in a bottle that the spoon is a millimetre too short to reach, like a…something that is something something. At times, when one is speaking, one pauses and gropes for le mot juste (the French sometimes have just the right words). The pause lengthens. The moments in the pause lengthen. It is not just pregnant, it is gravid (see?), with quadruplets, it is not just gravid (ha), it is four weeks overdue. One’s auditors watch one’s lips anxiously, and their mouths open and close in sympathy. They hold their breath. You could say any old thing and be done with it. But you know there’s a better word in there. Until you find it, er… will do.