Ghost Word

It sat right on the edge,

a name, a face, a plea.

I pushed against the mental hedge,

but it would not break free.

For days, it buzzed, a trapped fly,

behind my teeth, my tongue.

I’d pause mid-sentence, try to pry

the word from where it hung.

A B-movie guy, a bad haircut,

a sidekick, maybe a clown.

The memory’s door stayed firmly shut,

I couldn’t pin it down.

And now it’s just a dull, slow ache,

this void where sense should be.

A tiny, constant, brain-made mistake,

a thing still taunting me.