La Perte du Mot

Lyrics

The specimen is a word.
Spoon.
S-P-O-O-N.
A simple noun. Utensil. Concave. Familiar.
Meaning is stable. The neural connections are robust.
Begin the protocol.

Leon James at McGill, nineteen sixty-two.
Observed the temporary erasure. The neural fatigue.
I say it to the empty room.
Spoon.
The glottis clicks, the lips perform the shape.
Spoon.
It still means silver. It still means soup.
Spoon.
The connection holds. The signal is clear.
Spoon.

But with each repetition, the tether frays.
The signal degrades in the synaptic haze.
Spoon. Spoon. Spoon.
It is a vibration in the jawbone now.
Just a shape without content, a sound without a home.
The meaning is leaking out.
Spoooon.

I stare at it on the page. The letters start to float.
A hook, two empty circles, a final vertical stroke.
A foreign set of glyphs. An arbitrary code.
Spoon.
The motor cortex is on a loop.
Spoon.
The auditory cortex receives the raw data.
Spoon.
But the semantic network is suppressed. It goes dark.
Spoon.

And now the tether snaps. The signal is lost.
The channel is dead, whatever the cost.
Spoon. Spoon. Spoon.
A column of air shaped by meat and bone.
Just a shape without content, a sound without a home.
The meaning has drained away.
Spoooon.

And for thirteen seconds, there is nothing.
No utensil. No hunger. No hand. No mouth.
Just this... this artifact. This bizarre vocalization.
This *spuhn*.
A foreign object on the tongue. A pebble.
The file is not found. The cortex is silent.
Semantic satiation is complete. A perfect, hollow state.

Sp...
The... the silver thing for...
Gone.