Category Archives: word tasting notes

throng

A word that sounds like, say, an arrow suddenly shot into a post in a crowded inn, but signifies something more like the crush of people mobbing to see what’s up – or to get out of the way. There certainly can be something thrusting or throbbing about a thr onset with a back vowel – or imposing, as in throne. The nasality of the ong may add a resonance or ongoing vibration, on the other hand (as in gong and song). Taste for yourself: what is the difference between mob and throng? Do you find mob muddy, heavy, thick, dumbly belligerent? And do you find throng massive, energized, aggressive? And do you perhaps get a more southern European sense from mob? You may not, but if you do, you at least have the track on the origins: mob comes from Latin mobile, from which it is shortened. The th starting throng should be a giveaway as to its origin: few are the languages from which English gets words with that sound, and comparatively few are the modern languages that use it – about the closest one to English nowadays is Icelandic, and it writes this sound with a thorn (þ). As did English, once upon a time, and this word began with one. But this word also began as a verb, as it still is often used – but before the verb throng, meaning “crowd” or, in an now obsolete sense, “press violently,” was the verb thring (and yet how different, how much thinner or finer or lighter, perhaps, does thring feel!). And thring also meant – means, for its use is attested in the last century or so – about the same thing. Its past tense and past participle were formed by ablaut: thring, thrang, thrung. Thrang became a verb of its own, as sometimes has happened – a past-tense form of a verb is used as a causative verb in the present tense: if you make a tree fall, you fell it. And the vowel ultimately moved slightly to make it throng. And does the throng move? Well, it may; it may also be found cheering; it may be a throng of reporters or a media throng; one may expect it to be huge… These are some words that have been seen in the company of this word somewhat frequently. And of course a throng of others.

ablaut

Well, who’d have thunk it? It’s ablaut time! A what? No, it’s not “a blot,” though those new to this word might see it thus at first. There is neither blot nor blat in it. It is not, for those in music, a blah ut either. In fact, toss away all those loud or messy bl- words. You can even forget about blue, although the German word for “blue” – blau – appears in the heart of this word. But at least German is germane: this word comes from modern German, ab meaning “off” or “from”and laut meaning “sound,” and the syllables split betwixt b and l. And that laut is not a lot, not phonetically anyway – think loud (or lout). Now, does that remind you of another word? Um, let me think… Yes, umlaut. You will probably think first of two dots, like snake eyes or headlights or fang marks on top of a vowel (or perhaps puncture marks from a Spinal Tap), but umlaut is first of all what those marks are there to signify: a fronting of a vowel under the influence of a nearby vowel. So is ablaut the opposite? Well, it doesn’t have a diacritic, and it doesn’t involve the influence of another vowel, and in Germanic languages it does tend to move towards the back; that great philologist Dr. Seuss gave us a prime example: “Stink. Stank. Stunk.” But actually it simply means a change in vowel to signify a change in inflection – in English, we use it in some verbs to indicate a shift from present to past to past participle, but other languages use other shifts for other changes. It’s no longer “regular” in English, and so we would not expect it to get new use, but it still occasionally does, sometimes to the dismay of those who see language more as a weapon than as a toy: bring > brung and dive > dove are examples that get up some people’s noses. They see them as a blot on the language – indeed, who’d have thunk it?

mofette

Be wary of any tuffet from which the the object of this word issues; you might want to give it a little miss. If this word makes you think of a female mofo, on the other hand, that would be closer, at least in desirability. This word, by itself, certainly seems soft and pleasant enough; there are overtones of muffin, fete, and feta, and there is that dainty ette ending. (On the other hand, Star Wars fans may think of Grand Moff Tarkin and Boba Fett.) It starts with a cushiony m and then has a puff of f in the middle – and that f rises from the word like a little wisp of steam. Fetid steam? In fact, yes – indeed, one might say mephitic steam, and one would be directly connected to the etymon. Does this mephitic mofette come from Mephistopheles? Well, the noxious exhalation may, but the words may not. Actually, it’s not clear where the word Mephistopheles comes from (Goethe, but where did he get it?). It is clear where mofettes come from – actually, they come from mofettes, which are not clear, but you know… That is, mofette can also refer to the fissure or fumarole from which the blast of CO2 issues forth. So it’s two for one, and mo’ mofette for your moola.

junket

A word that could be fun, trashy, or both – or even neither. The junk leaps out right away, of course, and brings to mind trash, waste, booty, and boats (not unfamiliar things on many a junket). The et gives it a small and ornamental feel, echoing trinket. The opening j gives it a jaunty feel, and the k is perhaps the most unrefined-feeling of letters. (Together unaccompanied they give us jk, now short for “just kidding.”) The modern North American speaker will generally think of this word as signifying a pleasure trip at someone else’s expense with an ostensible serious purpose (research, business, what have you). Many official government trips are this characterized, and academic conferences have certainly not escaped the label – nor have medical “continuing education opportunities” in the form of luxury vacations with pro forma lectures attached, paid for by such as drug companies. More loosely, it can signify any pleasure trip, an outing for a picnic, perhaps. And it can signify a confection of cottage cheese and scalded cream. And it can signify a rush basket. OK, what? Do we need to do a research trip to explore the connection of these? Perhaps. There are various lines of thought about the lines of development. The rush basket is certainly the oldest sense, and comes from jonc “rush,” which may or may not be related to junk “rubbish” (all it needs is a bbi, clearly!). The dessert, it is asserted in some sources, is named after giuncata, Italian cream cheese, originally made in a rush basket. The picnic sense comes from the basket, the dessert, or, who knows, maybe both? Apparently people were too busy drinking and enjoying themselves on their outing to take notes.

ai

When this Bradypus (from Greek for “slow foot”) utters the cry that has become its common name, it likely does not suspect that it has given a helping claw to many a Scrabble player. It also likely little imagines that its name may be formed by artificial intelligence, Amnesty International, Adobe Illustrator, artificial insemination, and many more, or (particularly since it is native to Brazil) that it is uttering Mandarin for “love” (or a sigh, an exclamation, “dim,” “cancer,” “white”…). But any of these may well surface for the Canadian anglophone on seeing this word. On hearing it, of course, the same will think first of the first person, or of flamenco perhaps. (Sinophones will most likely hear yah! immediately after it.) This is an easily written word for an animal famously conservative in motion (its best-known name is that of the most indolent deadly sin). If anything in the form of this word might resemble a creature with a foreleg extended in the air, hanging from a tree by one (three-toed) forefoot, then that is appropriate; after all, these edentates are arboreal and, when they move at all, get around almost exclusively by brachiation – they aren’t even built to stand on the ground. They are not big animals, generally around 18 inches long – which, ironically for such lethargic beasts of laconic name, makes them sesquipedalian in size. Ai!

munificent

A word of generous coin, from start to finish. It opens with muni, which smacks of money, and ends with cent – though neither of these pieces actually has to do exactly with money or penny, whatever the jingle of their bond may be. The muni comes from Latin munus, “gift” (which also, in an extended sense of “official duty,” underlies municipal, however ungifted municipal officials may occasionally be), lending an air of redundancy to the common collocation munificent gifts. It should not be confused with nummus, “coin,” just as remuneration, which also grows from this root, should not be thought to be renumeration (numbers may be involved in munificence, but not etymologically). As to the cent, it’s just an illusion (as some apparently munificent donations turn out to be – every iffy cent), produced by the meeting of fic (from facere, “make, do”) and ent (a suffix to set the class of word, influenced by the kindred spirit magnificent). Yet it trips nicely on the tongue nonetheless, launching at the lips and then tapping and sliding the tip with a bite of the teeth in between; it begins with two nasals, then gives two voiceless fricatives before finally stopping through a nasal to the [t]. The sound of a murmur, then banknotes being taken out and set down? We may hope, at least, that at the heart of all munificence is something unific.

hermetic

These days, this word is found most often with seal. It is as though the joining of the lips at the m is the key enunciation, however brief it may be. It is often also found in reference to mystical, occult, new age or similar ideas and groups (the words Golden Dawn may come up). But, now, how do these come together, an airtight jar (or an envelope at an awards ceremony) and esoteric metaphysics? The form of the word seems to seal this mystery in. Does the her conduct us to the feminine yin of the dark, hidden, and interior? Yet a herm, for scholars of classical Athens, is a very masculine statue indeed. Is this word then hermaphroditic? Is the etic relevant, that word that anthropologists and linguists know as referring to the external expression, as opposed to the internal, paradigmatic, conceptual emic? Should this word be hermemic? What of the metic, sounding just like medic (to North Americans), with the overtones of sickness and guts? The h and m are cupped downwards, containing, and the e‘s have their little lassos, but the c just lets it all out at the end… Resonances of exotic and esoteric seem more concordant. The h must be from hidden, no? In fact, in the original Greek, it is somewhat hidden – or, more exactly, it is not a letter but a mere diacritic, a reverse-apostrophe-like sign of heavy breathing to start Ermes, which is to say Hermes. Wait, that mercurial god of caduceus (ah, medic!) and fleet foot? Well, actually, only to the extent that he was identified by the Neo-Platonists and other devotees of hidden mysteries with the Egyptian god Thoth, author of all mysterious doctrines. Specifically, this Thoth is Hermes Trismegistus, and Trismegistic is a synonym for Hermetic. So the hidden mysteries are hermetic. Things occult, concealed, are hermetic (but perhaps openable through the application of hermeneutic). A container sealed to prevent the passage of air and information is consequently, since the 17th century, also hermetic. Thus is the mystery revealed. So to speak.

caudate

This word may strike the unfamiliar as somehow caustic, or perhaps pertaining to a caul, or the date on which something was caused. To hear it, it’s something the cod ate. But in reality, its object is more likely appended to something that ate the cod. Ah, thereby hangs a tale… If you wish to give the cat a due, here it is: a word for things that have tails. The root is straightforward: Latin cauda, “tail.” Let your cat not bathe it in a bagna càuda. Fans of sound symbolism may wonder how so uncaudal a word could come to signify a tail. What could be curly or sinuous about a word with nothing but stops for consonants – not a liquid anywhere, and little curling of the vowels either? And yet you will find your cat so cuddly as it strokes you caudally…

thole

Actually two different words. No, I don’t mean t+hole, though those who know it as a term for an oarlock might wonder whether this is its origin. Rather, it is a noun and a verb, and the two are quite unrelated in sense and source. The form of the word immediately brings hole to the eye, and the word can be pronounced with the lips rounded from start to finish (though it would be more normal to round them after th), making it even more holey, but the noun’s referent is rather what one puts into a hole: a peg. In particular, if there are a pair of them, they may be seen stuck in the side of a boat holding the oar between them. It can be any of a variety of other pegs, too, but most notably one holding shaft to axle in a cart, or the projecting handle on a scythe. The sound also brings sole and soul to mind, but with the softness of lisping. None of this is likely to make one expect the verb to signify two senses that can both be rendered also by suffer: the first “bear, endure,” and the second “allow, give.” One may say small wonder that it’s not much used now, but it’s been recorded in English since the 9th century and was still used often enough in the 19th. Both words come to us from Anglo-Saxon, one from a root relating to trees, the other from a root meaning “bear, suffer” and related to Latin tolerare and tollere. The opening th was once a thorn, but since that glyph has disappeared, we now have an anagram of hotel. Which, unless it’s the sort of hotel you put up with rowing – or scything – at, is also quite excrescent.

sledgehammer

Many who were around in 1986 will hear Peter Gabriel with this word. But with or without his song of the name, this is a word of weight and motion. Hear the rhythm: a slam that holds two full beats, then a second slam with a third on on the last off-beat. Like pounding a large mallet, say, on a surface and bouncing it once… twice thrice. But this compound word does join two different pieces, even if they are both weighty. Both start voiceless, but sledge has that sliding or swooshing sound of sl and then a jamming-in voiced affricate with dge, while hammer has softer consonants (ironic, isn’t it, that hammock, with its harder ending, names such a soft thing while hammer names such a hard one?) but a more aggressive because more open stressed vowel. Sledge has ascenders and a descender spiking it, too, while hammer is flat after the opening ascender. This word’s object is something that pounds home, not just once but again and again, and so it is fitting that this word pounds home twice, not only in form but in sense: one might as well say drillbore or stoveheater. Sledge, you see, in this word, comes from Old English slecg (pronounced just the same as the modern word), and means “large, heavy hammer.” It comes from the same root, way back, as slay, which first meant “smite, strike, beat,” and then just got worse. But there was – and is – another sledge, which comes from Middle Dutch sleedse and refers to a sled or similar conveyance made of a small platform with runners. So to be clear that one is not demolishing a house with a Flexible Flyer (which would be more of a sled jammer), the hammer is added – another Teutonic word that has really always referred to, well, a hammer, and hasn’t changed very much in form over the ages.