I gots ToTS bad. I guess it will get worser as I get more aged.
Tip of the Tongue Syndrome (ToTS). The most recent case involved “those little cars that go down the hill.” Soap Box Derby cars. They are big in our town, we have one of the top three Soap Box Derbies in the world here.
Sometimes all you can think about is something similar, say another actor who is often in the same types of films. It’s this memory that seems to block the retrieval of the one you really want. Other times there’s apparently nothing blocking the memory’s retrieval other than your mind’s stubborn refusal.
Doesn’t that drive you nuts?
It happens to all ages, but younger minds memory synapses fire quicker and they recover without a hesitation. I remember being young and when an old fart would stutter and stammer around to find the right word wanting to administer a well placed dope slap.
But my mother calmly explained that this would not be proper etiquette – especially to my grandmother.
So I would patiently wait until I got a little signal that she would really like to be let off the hook. The bobbing of the head, stomping of a foot and drool was a good signal.
Now I am one with ToTs. I hate it.
Nancy and I have an arrangement: we just blurt out whatever is crossing our brain – ie: instead of “little cars that go down hill,” I might say: “dogs at White Park.” Derby is one of our dogs, the race is at White Park. We would work it out. Or not.
I think just for a while, I would like to experience lexical-gustatory synaesthesia. One can taste the word rather than say it.
Oh shit, never mind.