It’s on the tip of my tongue.
The word’s shape nearly fills my mouth. It’s teasing me, leaving me
hushed, silent, agape. My tongue is unsure of the almost-an-echo
pushing and pulling my lips. They’re trying to follow consonants and vowels,
places the articulation might dance with my teeth. I am, with increasing frustration,
feeling for the ever evasive. The sounds’ vibration, their flow, friction, and aspiration
are as familiar as