The other night I took my son to Doctor Who Live, where we queued to queue to queue as vendors worked the crowd.
I gestured at a woman peddling fluffy pink balls of sugar and asked "What is it called in our language??"
Kid, sighing: "Cotton candy, Mom."
When she was about twelve my daughter diagnosed this tendency to misplace common words - including the names of, you know, the children - as nominal aphasia. She blames my history of head trauma (three skull fractures before my eighteenth birthday).
I dispute this claim; if my forgetfulness were truly pathological, someone would have noticed. Right? And I would not have earned a childhood reputation as a spelling bee champ and human thesaurus.
If the (admittedly real) brain damage had smashed the word centres of the little gray cells, surely my days would be less cluttered with cogitation, debate, and dialectic.
I may be a merciless & perplexing mother, but I give good rhetoric.