conciliation

Posted on November 6, 2008 | Leave a comment

A soothing wave-wash of a word, suited for whispering in the ear over steam rising from the collar. Not a stop in it after the crisp opener – the second c is softened and the t shuns the tap. The word begins with the prefix we see in conjoin and congratulate but also in contend and constern: things come together for better or worse. In this case, it’s calming, with fricatives, liquids and nasals. The middle of the word may sound silly, but it also has the slipping smoothness of silk and the silent shine of silver. In the end is the functional ation, a suffix as ubiquitous as doughnut shops (where contending parties may come to terms over coffee); it takes an action and makes it a noun, a thing, a counsel to keep – or in this case perhaps a council, which comes from the same Latin origins: it’s a meeting of the bodies, and this is a meeting of the minds. Or at least a hoped-for one; we note that it’s so often preceded by “attempt(s) at.”

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antagonistic

Posted on November 5, 2008 | 1 comment

A word that might be made of barbed wire. It snags your tag, nags and sticks you. Is it agony or just agon? Don’t egg it on. It’s negative from the get-go, with the ant that is ever against – a little insect in the black ink of text, carrying much more than its weight in animus. When you see that, you might well say “Ag, what’s to do?” Best be gone? But the c at the end might catch you – if you haven’t been tarred by the nasty double [æ], pushed back by the insistent [I]s, and poked by the twin tapping [t]s, even while cushioned by the pads of the [n]s. Yes, this word is one of duals – and duels. Front and back are two syllables each, and each is all in the front until it ends with a kick in the back; in the middle is the moat of that perpetual neutral schwa sound represented here by the emptiest character. Two sides, differing in little more than vowel height and the voicing of one stop, glaring at each other across the slightest of gaps. And of course neither will prevail, as both are needed. Why? It’s all Greek to me… of course, from roots meaning “against” and “struggle.” We’ve had it in English since the 17th century – the word, that is; the idea’s timeless.

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snide

Posted on November 4, 2008 | Leave a comment

This word likes to hang about with comment and remark. But if someone were to target you with a snide remark, would you take it in stride? Would you cock a snook? The nasal sneering associated with this word comes straight out of the sn opening, so common in snuffling nose words; after that, it arcs with a rhyme of stride and glide and perhaps a scintilla of sly. There are many and varied ide words, however, all the way from bride and pride to chide and hide, so the end of the word is not what governs it; rather, the vowel takes its cue from the onset, not just the sn but other s+consonant words too: sty, sky, spry, snipe. The sound of the word may have moved it to where it is now, semantically; it emerged in the 19th century to mean sham, worthless, bogus, etc. Within a few decades, a person could be called snide, meaning cunning, sharp, mendacious, contemptible; from there, it was used for hypocrisy and malicious gossip; and by the 1930s we see it used to refer to slyly derogatory remarks. And where did it come from? Well, now, why would you think lexicographers would be able to tell you that?

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euphony

Posted on November 3, 2008 | Leave a comment

A word with pleasant sound. It carries the smooth resonances of symphony and polyphony while not so quickly calling forth the cracked stops of cacophony. (If you say it like an accusation of spuriousness, your hearer may think you funny.) The first syllable is pleasing, too; many will think of euphoria and perhaps eulalia (or, by sound association, even Utopia); dancers and theatre historians may think of eurythmy (and ’80s music fans might get a related echo). And who does not like to year “you” spoken to them in pleasing tones? Orthographically, this word gives us the ph spelling that bespeaks classical roots and phatter wallets – it could be higher class or just “classy.” Saying the word takes the tongue in a swoop through the mouth: high front to high back, like an ebbing wave, then the [f] with the lips and teeth like the sound of surf (or of soft white noise), then the tongue taps front quickly before continuing the flex to its opening forward swell. No surprise that the word comes from Greek – a Greek word that means the same thing (nice + sound), euphonia. Notice that the ia was changed by the 17th-century borrowers to a standard English ending, y, perhaps because they thought it sounded nicer.

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mandible

Posted on November 2, 2008 | Leave a comment

It may sound to some like a liturgical vestment, but if a man dribbles, this is where it happens. The nasals and voiced stops give a taste of nummy and nibble as well as assorted other ible suffix words (dirigible, runcible) and ibble words (kibble, Tribble), and even other lip rubbers like bubble and double double. The shape of the word doesn’t suggest a jawbone – it’s like a half-mown lawn, with the low nasal beginning followed by the ascenders and dot with the stops and liquid. Perhaps in the lawn is a mantis masticating an ant… Or we could say manducating, a rare word that comes from the same Latin source as mandible. Given that manducate has been used in particular in eucharistic context, it does seem apposite for a praying mantis… Perhaps the mantis is also wearing a maniple and a chasuble. But at any rate it’s chewing with its mandibles.

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sesame

Posted on October 31, 2008 | 1 comment

A flavourful word with notes both exotic and quintessentially American. You probably learned this word when you were very young, and you may well have thought it had two syllables and sounded like it meant “view identical.” But you quite likely heard it even before that, as the name of a street. A piece of New York childhood (archetypal even for those of use who grew up in locales utterly different from that of the show), but we’re told that to get there is a magic carpet ride. Well, your magic carpet, when hearing “sesame,” might expect “open” before it – and then, instead of American mornings, you’re on Arabian nights. And perhaps you’ll end up farther east still and the word that comes with this one will be “oil” – of which a little drop goes a long way. And always, everywhere, you will find this with “seed.”  And such a small seed, but such strong flavour in the oil, and so well travelled! Well, so says me. The word comes from all over – our English version takes the spelling from the French version but the pronunciation is guided by Greek (English style). So go down the street, open the door to the store, and get some snacks – or some halvah or tahini.

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meretrix

Posted on October 30, 2008 | 2 comments

Lest you be tempted to think there is merit in this word’s object, be assured it is mere tricks. Those two e‘s are the heavy-lidded sloe eyes that spy you on the lamplit streetcorner; follow your eyes farther down and you see the x of fishnet-stockinged legs. Hello, sailor; call me Trixie. How can a word sound so shiny, fulgurant, coruscating, when it stands for something so often vulgar and coarse? But the word does have something of merit in its origins – merere, Latin for earning money, is the root of both meretrix and merit. And how often do we, after all, go for the superficial, the candy lip gloss, the easy endorphins? Just remember that the sirens on the corner are often followed by the sirens of the cruiser.

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scabrous

Posted on October 29, 2008 | Leave a comment

A word that runs on the tongue like a hand going across a rough surface with little snags: it has a sound of sliding friction at start and finish, but in between catches on a point, then rubs against a little knob. Looking at it, too, you see a smooth top but for one scraping point up in the middle. This word does not lack for unpleasant echoes: not only the obvious scab and scar, but resonances of stab and other wounding words that end in voiced stops: dig, snag, grab, jab, squib, crab, and so on. But it also draws on the full strength of that expansive a, which is like a blast of hot, dry air through a word – and that may be fragrant, even flamboyant air, as in “fabulous,” or it may be a jet of sour gas, as in “nasty.” This word comes from Latin scabere, meaning to scrape or scratch, and first described a rough surface that does just that. But it has come to be more common in reference to writings, wit, and other words – specifically ones that are caustic, harsh, abusive, abrasive, repulsive… ones that would leave a scab (even though “scab” is not cognate).

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sherbet

Posted on October 28, 2008 | Leave a comment

This word could sound like a a reliable wager but comes across more like an agreement with reservations. To some it may also sound like a pack-bearing Himalayan or a whispering frog. Its bivalency extends to its meaning: originally a drink of fruit juice and water, sometimes cooled with snow (a Byzantine slushy, perhaps), and still used for that at times (or for a fizzy fruit-flavoured drink), but now also an ice-cream-like dessert made with water instead of milk. The duality extends further: it has a fraternal twin, sorbet, which comes from the same Turkish and Persian word (sherbet or shorbet) and means the same thing as the newer meaning of sherbet (for another dollar or two). The Turks and Persians got their word from an Arabic verb meaning “drink.” One thing they all have in common: the slurping noise one may make while consuming them, which is like the sound you make when offered one: “Sure!” But why not?

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conjunctiva

Posted on October 28, 2008 | Leave a comment

This word sounds, perhaps, like a comic-book villainess (succubus, perhaps) who wields ampersands and marries people forcibly. But in truth, the eyes have it. So do the i‘s in this word – you may think there is only one, but the j, in English history (and Latin roots) whilom an i, is really an i-lid in closed position. And the conjunctiva would thus be on its inside. But what is this conjunctiva, famous mostly for the infection to which it is prey (conjunctivitis)? Is it junk, is it a con? No, it’s a juncture, a joining together – the “and” between eyeball and eyelid. The full Latin is membrana conjunctiva, which means our noun was their adjective – but, in the body, a conjunction no less.

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