It's On the Tip of My Tongue

The Tao is like an old actor whose name you can't remember. You can almost recall his face, and the approximate title of a black–and–white movie you saw him in at college. You can almost visualize the way he walked carrying a martini across a ballroom floor to his leading lady. But his name delights in escaping you, it teases you, it itches you till you say the hell with it and turn to something else.

Days later a glance at the blue sky brings it to you for no reason: William Powell.