No mummy-sheet of tradition can be used to stop the process. Objects, words must be led across time not preserved against it. Even in my lifetime the immediacy of that word will fad. Most of my friends like words too well. They set them under the blinding light of the poem and try to extract every possible connotation from each of them, every temporary pun, every direct or indirect connection - as if a word could become an object by mere addition of consequences.
Words are what sticks to the real.
We use them to push the real, to drag the real into the poem. They are what we hold on with, nothing else. They are as valuable in themselves as rope with nothing to be tied to. I repeat - the perfect poem has an infinitely small vocabulary.