Severed was not a good word to describe it. It did not bring to mind the image of elegance that Jonathan had in mind. Rather, severed was more gruesome than Jonathan would like. It blotched the paper like a bloodstain. This he could not have. Afterall, he was writing a poem; a poem should be elegant, not gruesome.

It all seemed perfect--dreamlike. At least, up until severed. The word ruined the poem. It was a bad word, Jonathan decided. He crossed it out. He thought for quite some time, searching for a good word. When he did not find a good word, he put his pencil down, hoping it would help him concentrate, and thought on the subject some more.

Only seconds later, Jonathan thought of a word. It was a great word. No, better, it was the perfect word. It conveyed such emotion, it flowed flawlessly, and it rhymed. Most importantly, it was elegant. Jonathan thought on how wonderful his poem would be with this new word. He would win prizes with such a masterpiece!

Excited to get on with such great work, Jonathan picked up his pencil with glee, and put it to his paper. Then he stopped. Jonathan waited a moment. He did not quite know what he was waiting for. So he waited a little longer, trying to figure out why he was waiting.

Then it dawned on him, quite suddenly, like that cruel dawn that wakes you up at six in the morning. In all his fantasizing over what great work his poem would be, over the prizes and fame and sweat and tears, Jonathan had done something very foolish. He had forgotten what the word was.

Jonathan panicked internally. How could he have forgotten the word? It was the perfect word. It flowed, rhymed, and sounded elegant! He needed the word. The word meant fame, prizes, and a masterpiece! But it was gone now.

Jonathan searched his mind for what had gone missing. Desperately, he tried to recall what the word had been. What had he been fantasizing about, if not the word? What had he been so excited about? If he knew that, then he knew the word! But again and again, only one word came back to him, and that was fame. Fame was not the perfect word. It would flow horribly, it did not rhyme, and it had a horrible, grating feeling. It was not elegant in the least.

Jonathan looked at the word he had crossed out. What was a synonym for it he may have used? What rhymed and flowed? What was such an elegant word, such that it made the poem?

Tired of rhetorical questions, and tired of thinking, Jonathan sighed, and looked at the word again. Severed. It was the perfect word to describe it, Jonathan realized. Severed from fame. Severed from perfection. Severed from rising to something greater. It was the perfect word now, but it was not the word that he wanted.