When I really want to remember something, I write it down where it could disappear at any moment.
An unsaved, unnamed notepad document, open on my screen. Its analog equivalent might be a scribble on a piece of tissue so light it could be blown away by the slightest window breeze.
I didn’t start using the doc as my personal RAM on purpose. It is open to serve as a scratch pad, for links copied intermittent of bit.ly-ing, for text pasted in and copied out as a transitory step to remove hidden formatting.
But then concepts started to end up on the white notepad square, phrases I fell in love with that had no immediate application, or names for things I had never thought to name. Recent examples: “mermaidleprechaungenie” (a perfect amalgamized term for any supposed magical entity); “Soup Kitchen Man Is Angry” (a phrase that richly deserves to be illustrated).
Those phrases are no longer on my screen, or written down anywhere (except wherever I originally ran into them). My computer restarted for an update, perhaps, or my husband happened to close the doc when installing my new monitor. Yet I remember them perfectly. Things I enter into the document live in front of my face for a while, and because I know they aren’t safely archived elsewhere, I don’t let them escape. They become part of my current worldview.
When you want to remember something, don’t save it.