One of my favorite Mark Twain quotes describes the gulf between the almost right word and the right word: “’Tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

Invariably clever and frequently profound, Twain draws a distinction that couldn’t be much bigger. What’s more powerful? A tiny insect or fearsome force of nature?

No wonder I fret over my choice of words. Or is it brood? Or, better still, agonize? See what I mean?

That’s the blessing and curse of the English language. There are so many words from which to choose — by one estimate more than 170,000 in current use. Yet, each word conveys a different meaning.

It’s possible, I suppose, to write with almost right words — to even make a point in some vague fashion. It’s impossible to write with clarity without the right words.

There’s an added benefit to using the right words. They usually work better than a boatload of almost right words.

That’s particularly true in replacing adverbs — words that modify other words, usually verbs. Novelist Stephen King once proclaimed the road to hell is paved with adverbs.

I could recount appallingly how I ran quickly around the track until I tired badly and struggled mightily to catch my breath. In other — and, I’d contend, better — words, I sprinted until I crumpled spent and gasping.

Word choice sometimes comes down to big and little. In most cases, less is more. I admit, though, I sometimes succumb to the temptation to use bigger words when it would be better to eschew obfuscation.

Ultimately, the best choice remains the right choice, that one, wonderful word that conveys exactly the intended meaning.

’Tis the difference between the lighting bug and the lightning.

I’ve heard a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind. I’ve also seen the evidence for just the opposite: a cluttered desk is a sign of genius. A quote attributed to no less a genius than Albert Einstein poses a good question: Of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?

My desk isn’t so much cluttered as it is disastrous. I’m talking well beyond what the British might describe as a dog’s breakfast. Picture instead the aftermath of a tornado that’s ripped through a trailer park.

It’s not like there’s any shortage of storage. That’s no excuse. My rolltop desk features eight drawers and no less than 19 cute little cubbies. But each is crammed full of junk, most of which I haven’t touched since I stuffed it there years ago.

The surface of my desk is no less crowded with not only my laptop computer and printer, but also files, books and paperwork. The crowing touch, so to speak, are the baseball caps I brought back as souvenirs from scuba diving resorts.

I taped quotations and admonitions to a spot at eye level where they serve as ready reminders. 

“Write with confidence and authority,” one sign commands. “Show, don’t tell.” There’s more good advice. “Bring your characters to life.”

I also clipped and displayed comic strips.

My favorite “Pearls Before Swine” strip by Stephan Pastis pictures in the first panel two characters talking. 

“Where were you last weekend?” one asks.

“I went to a writers retreat,” the other answers.

The next panel shows four writers sprinting away, the pages of what are presumably their works in progress flying behind. One writer screams. “Run. Run. Writing’s too hard.”

Exactly.

In one sense, it’s a shame the bric-a-brac on my desk covers a beautiful 19th century heirloom. The desk belonged to my beloved late wife and before that her father and grandfather. I expect my sons will one day treasure their mom’s desk as much as she did. I’m just borrowing it until then.

I suppose it might be more efficient to maintain a militaristically clean desk. Still, there’s an argument to make for the benefits of a workspace that’s both comfortable and comforting. I’m distracted by the odds and ends that surround me, but also reminded of all the blessings I have to count. And that’s a good place, at least for me, from which to tell stories.

Is my mind cluttered? Do I boast an IQ of 160? Neither.

Thankfully, this much is certain: My mind’s not empty.

Call me a collector. Not of priceless artwork, tragically. Or even, for that matter, of baseball cards or beer cans. Rather, I collect facts. Some of them useful. Some not. And some so arcane few others appreciate their value. 

It’s an occupational hazard, a byproduct of working in print journalism for more than 40 years. Newspaper editors have to learn certain facts to do their jobs. The Associated Press wrote the book on the subject in compiling a style manual and what’s essentially a long list of facts editors and reporters use in writing for newspapers and other media outlets.

While a lot of facts become anachronistic, editors seldom forget any. Consequently, our brains become full of them, nearly to the point of bursting like water balloons filled with too much water. 

Even if editors can’t use put all those facts to good use on the job, then by God the curmudgeonly ones like myself draw them like a gun to assert our intellectual superiority. Yeah. Right. While I’ve long fantasized about becoming a “Jeopardy” champion, I’m only smart enough to realize the unlikelihood of that occurrence.

For now, though, here are a few of my favorite facts, kind of like my version of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

It’s Canada goose, not Canadian goose. It’s Smokey Bear, not Smokey the Bear. And those big shaggy animals that used to roam the plains are bison, not buffalo. By the way, it’s sneak peek, not peak. It’s free rein, not reign. And you whet an appetite, not wet one.

Books, movies and other works have titles. They’re not entitled to a darned thing. I’ll have words with anyone who suggests otherwise. 

Every time I read or hear something’s “totally destroyed,” I wince. Then I want to throttle the offending writer. Something’s either destroyed or it’s not. It’s certainly not destroyed to any greater degree with the addition of an adverb. The same thing holds true for other binary conditions. She’s not completely blind any more than she’s partially pregnant.

I suppose I could go on. And on. And on.

But a good editor knows less is more. In my case, a lot more.

I’ve often wondered about the nature of fun.

What is fun, really? We’re constantly encouraged to have it. More than a barrel of monkeys, if possible. Work should be fun. Weekends should be fun. Theme parks should be a whole lot of fun. And wedding nights … now those should take fun to a whole new level. Even if it isn’t supposed to be all fun and games, life clearly should include at least some fun. At least that’s the message.

Google “fun,” and the same terms show up: a source of enjoyment or pleasure, an amusing diversion. Yet, an image never accompanies the definition. Now, Google digestive system and follow the route from esophagus to rectum. Google warthog and take a good look at the wild African pig, wartlike protuberances and all. Fun, however, can’t be illustrated in a diagram or captured on film — or explained in a few words, for that matter.

An ephemeral thing, fun creeps up when least expected, tweaks a nose and then disappears without a trace.

Don’t look for fun in the obvious places. I’ve already tried, and it’s seldom there. As a child, I searched candy aisles and amusement parks. When I was a bit older, I was certain I’d find fun at Disneyworld. What I found instead was too many Snickers upset my stomach. So did roller coasters. Disneyworld was fun, but also required waiting in lines. A lot. Older still, I looked for fun in bars. I recall fragments of my 21st birthday and drinking something that was orange and served in a pitcher and set on fire. Big mistake. Huge. And definitely not fun.

I’ve rarely had fun at special occasions, either. My high school prom was supposed to be fun. My college graduation was supposed to be fun, too. Holidays like Christmas and New Years are supposed to be fun year after year. The problem is, events hyped as fun free-for-alls infrequently are. And I’ve waited, disappointed, for the fun to begin.

Fun is funny that way. Because places and activities considered dull, even dreary, turn out to be fun. I’ve had fun listing the principal exports of Brazil on a geography test. I’ve had fun at the office on a Monday afternoon. I inhaled so much nitrous oxide during one visit to the dentist, I giggled my way through a root canal.

Most often, though, I’ve had the most fun when I wasn’t trying to have any fun at all. The realization took me by surprise. I remember summer evenings spent riding bikes with friends in the small town in which I grew up. We didn’t have any plans or destination. We were just pedaling and talking until darkness fell and we had to go home. The start of school seemed like a million years away, and the summer break stretched ahead in an endless succession of carefree days. Everything just felt right.

These days, I experience the same feeling of contentment in scuba diving with my family or catching up with friends at a coffee shop — or, on those rarer occasions, writing a well-turned phrase. Neither a picture nor a thousand words quantify the pleasure of those moments.

It’s fun.