Le Mot Juste
“What is this?” Dr. Cohn muttered upon gazing down at the manuscript. “Funes? In my twenty years as a professor, I don’t believe I’ve encountered that word before, Zara.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. I made it up. Funes are those tiny silken hairs that grow on a beings’ body; on a child’s head at birth, after losing hair during chemotherapy, or on the belly of a puppy.”
“You see Zara, writing is about finding the perfectly appropriate word for the situation. Flaubert called it Le Mot Juste. It’s an endless quest; an art you will develop over time.”
“Sure – but what if the one you are looking for is sitting right there in the palm of your hand? And we’re all just too preoccupied with searching to see it?”
First Glimpse Out of The Cave
Some say it’s not what we see, but how we see it.
She sat in the cave where they used to sit, smoke their fires and light their pipes. Where the dreams trembled through the hollows, leaves entered with the wind in autumn and fear and lust smudged the walls at night. The cave. This cave. The cave of her heart. Glowed with wonder.