Tracking My Glitches, or Where's a competent file clerk when you really need one?

This poem was written in response to the prompt "Tracking my glitches."

Preface: Arthur Conan Doyle’s character, Sherlock Holmes, says that the brain is like an attic: when it’s full, you can’t put anything more in unless something else comes out. I think the brain is like a filing cabinet with unlimited drawers and file folders.  Everything is still in there, but, as I age, I have more and more retrieval problems, perhaps due to increasingly-sloppy filing.

  

Describing my participation

in some recent recreation,

I sometimes choose precipitation,

perspiration, palpitation.

My filing clerk is on vacation.

Requesting facts on the last earthquake,

I’ll ask about a chocolate shake

or a new class I hope to take,

and so my query is a big mistake. 

My filing clerk is on a break.

Here, Fido, Dogbert, Rover, Hammy!

Come get your dinner, Tiger, Pammy!

Whatever your name is, it’s uncanny.

You cats—whoever: Oh! Jupiter! Sami!

My filing clerk dealt a double whammy.

Telling friends about the ways

scriptwriters fooled the Code of Hays,

instead of Ben-Hur (Heston’s play),

I name Ben Gurion, BenWa, Ben Gay.

My filing clerk has gone away.

From A to Z, there is confusion.

Perhaps I’ve suffered a contusion,

or do I need a brain transfusion?

My retrieval skills are an illusion.

My filing clerk is a word Malthusian.*

          --Agatha

*Malthusian—Thomas Malthus (1821) theorized that population tends to increase at a faster rate than its means of subsistence, and that unless it is checked by moral restraint or disaster (as disease, famine, or war), widespread degradation inevitably results.