Somehow in the past few weeks I find myself uttering, "I don't exactly know what I mean by that, but I mean it".

Lots of folks think we poets and writers are a strange lot. They're right, of course. Twain said the difference between a word and the right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. He's right,too.

Wordsmiths struggle for specific meaning all the time. We are fascinated and frustrated 'til the right word satisfies us. When we find "the" word to convey the precise definition of our particular thought at the moment, we are overjoyed. 

Why do we demand such exactitude of ourselves day in and day out? It's our passion. It gives us great pleasure to see a smile or a nod of the head from a reader. We've connected! L'ho provato sulla mia pella. (I have experienced that on my own skin. Italian)

Our living, evolving language drives us forward. After all, new words, like frenemy and webisode and green-collar and eggcorn and ...

I'll leave that thought for another day.