Moliere Forgets the Rhyme

He does not recall

The rhyme he wrote

I see him standing there

Struggling to find the word

That ends his line

Poor Monsieur Moliere

Grasping at straws

Oh, if only he had used the word ‘straws’

So many rhymes for ‘straws’

Draws

Pause

Laws

But no, he went for the clever rhyme

As he often does

And now look at him

Sweating like a minister

At a madame’s house

Trying to kill time

As if the audience doesn’t know

That he can’t remember the rhyme

We tell him over and over

He needs to write plain prose

Such as some of the other writers do

Then, if you forget something

You can improvise

Whereas with these rhyming couplets

It’s starkly evident

When the word escapes you

As it often does

When you get on in years

Why just last week

I was performing one of the Monsieur’s monologues

This endless diatribe about the etiquette of virgins

And wouldn’t you know it?

The word that rhymes with deflower

Fell completely out of my mind

There was nothing to do but come up with a new couplet

Never finishing the old one

And the audience was in an uproar

But what choice did I have?

Moliere cornered me after the performance

And asked after my mental well-being

Which I assured him was tip-top

Even the springiest of chickens

Have moments of autumn, do they not?

But the Monsieur assured me

That his mind is as taut as ever

And yet there he stands

Onstage, wringing his little hands

Trying to remember

His latest witty invention

Do you hear the coughing in the crowd?
The tsk-tsk-ing of the ticket-holders?

Hold your breath and you’ll feel it

The tension

The anxiety

It’s quite lovely

If you’re not the cause of it

I don’t take any pleasure myself

In watching the Monsieur struggle

But I hope he’ll be kinder to those of us

Who find his linguistic olympics

A bit tiresome at times

He’s not a cruel man

By any means

In fact, just last week

I found him in his dressing quarters

Weeping over something he’d written

‘Monsieur Moliere,’ I gasped,

Unable to hide my surprise

At seeing him show his emotion

In such a way

‘Whatever is wrong?’

He looked up with the saddest eyes

I’ve ever seen set so deep

In a face so marked for humor

And said--

‘I wrote something

No one will enjoy’

How does one respond

To such a statement?

I sat down with him

And assured him

That someone would indeed

Enjoy what it was

He had written

But he told me that wasn’t the point

That--yes, he was injured

Knowing that his latest creation

Wouldn’t bring joy to anyone

But it brought him great joy

And so he was faced with feeling pride

In something he knew

Would only really give pleasure to himself

And what is one to do with a situation such as that?

An artist?

What could they do?

He said he would keep it hidden

That piece of writing

And even I was not permitted

To take a look at it

That was last week

And tonight he stands onstage

Struggling to do what he believes

He does so well

Make people happy

But he can’t find the rhyme

Isn’t that sad?

Even this thing

This thing that belongs to him

And only him

It escapes him

As hard as he tries to hold it

And as sure as he is

That it will be appreciated

It isn’t his to share

And he didn’t know it

Until the moment

He tried to speak

Sometimes you write words

That are meant to be spoken quickly

And when you do

You must never spend one second

Thinking about the speed

Or the agility of the language

Or what is it you want it to do

You must just speak

And hope

Speak and hope

Monsieur Moliere--he speaks

But I fear for his hope

I fear that when he goes

To reach for it

He’ll forget what it was

He was reaching for

And there will be nothing else

To say