To miss a place is to know place. Maybe not perfectly. Probably (definitely) nowhere near exhaustively. But you know it in a way that's imprinted on your senses, your spirit; it's suspended there like dust in the air only noticed through a sunbeam.
You can't catch it. You can't bottle it up. You can only breathe into it, hard and deep, hoping the memory materializes before it's fossilized in the bones that once brought you there.