May I Have A Word?

I’m not sure how widely shared my issue is but when writing I will decide on a word, a perfect word that matches the beat of a sentence and in theory pulls the reader through the paragraph and ushers him toward the next cluster of thoughts. Unfortunately, though the word probably exists, it exists on the fringes of my synapsis where teasing almost-versions of the chosen word pop up like pulling offensive guards to keep me from realizing the ideal.

Yesterday the guard was “prodigious.” The word I needed wasn’t “prodigious” but it had the right number of syllables, fit the rhythm, and started with the right combination of consonants. The problem was the second I went fishing for the word I really wanted I couldn’t shake “prodigious.”

Thank God I’m married to a nimble-thinking editor because this happens to me all the time with all manner of cruel twists to keep me off my toes. I’ll want a word meaning intense and in my head that word I can’t conjure up immediately begins with an “ir.” Prefixes are a vicious trap. You’ll cycle through every word you’ve ever heard trying to remember the right one that starts with “con” – I’ve gone so far as to flip through a dictionary in a fruitless search – only to realize an hour later that it’s not “con” but “non.” Certainty of “con” blinded me and put me at risk of a dictionary-related paper cut which may not sound that bad but the veins in your fingers are very close to the skin. Cuts there are like head wounds. They bleed disproportionally to severity as I can attest having bravely attempted, despite odds, to save a doomed brandy glass midway through its journey from table to floor.

Sometimes my nimble thinking in-house editor is at a loss. Such is my respect for her vocabulary (she knows all manner of anachronistic Victorian terms if that gives you a hint towards her range and scope) that if she doesn’t know the word I’m after I’ll assume it was a figment of the shadows of my mind, hit backspace, and approach the sentence from a different angle. Other times the answer comes too easily to her and realizing that she couches her response in a way to cushion my delicate ego. “Are you sure you weren’t thinking…” or “Maybe you mean…” She’s so sweet. She frames it as if I held the answer all along. A kindly lie that greases the rails of marriage.

I habitually misplace things. My days begin with a hunt for my wallet, the left of a particular pair of shoes, the mini-computer I call a phone, or my favored hat with an ad for a defunct dairy on the front. Nothing is ever where I left it. I have a mischievous nine-year-old so I’m always on the search for tools that are rarely needed until they are suddenly and specifically needed, like flashlights and screwdrivers. Sometimes I think I should just start the lantern/flashlight hunt in his room rather than waste my time feeling along the closet shelf in the dark.

I understand the frustration of not being able to find something all too well, but physical searches are different from mental searches. For one, I know the physical item exists. I’ve held the object, changed its batteries, and pointed at it while explaining that is has a needful location in case of events to an annoyed teenager and his younger brother, whose neck seems to have a preprogramed nod-and-agree-without-listening function. It, the sought after, is real. Barring the possibility that I live in a Phillip K. Dick novel I can proceed knowing that my search need not go beyond the bounds of the walls of my house unless I’m looking for my shovel. Then all bets are off. Who knows what those kids might have buried in the backyard?

A word is different. The thing I’m after might not exist. I hate the word “enthusiast.” Always have and for no logical reason. Somewhere around 2012 I started writing it as “enthusiant.” I didn’t like the sibilance of the accepted word and reasoning that Shakespeare spelled his name fourteen ways and our language, lacking a royal academy, is a democratic concept despite the prominence of Webster and a bunch of dons a three day’s drive from London (Oxford is actually only sixty or so miles from London but my mom had a Rover and my brother had a Jaguar and given the miles to repair ratio I’ve witnessed with British cars, three days is generous) I felt within my rights. We shout and get heard in what is laughingly called “The Queen’s English.” The Simpson made up two words for an episode. They were “embiggen” and “cromulent.” Both are in the OED now. “Doh!” is in there too.

Our language is marvelously elastic. I make up words all the time. As I said, I didn’t like “enthusiast.” I got “enthusiant” in the Wiktionary listing myself as the sole source. It stayed up for a week or so. I’m not an Oxford don. I’m not even a college graduate, but I did briefly contribute to the language, and I am blissfully riding a wave of my wife’s collegiate legitimacy which was long ago overtaken by professional achievement. If there is a bibliography to my life it starts with a beautiful woman reading manuscripts at a dining room table. Cited.

I can’t say that I hate searching for the right word or playing around with the sound of a sentence. Often it works itself out. It’s just that there’s a once in a while mental hole that I get sucked into. The “prodigious” problem is, despite the word, only occasional. Frustrating, and like so many frustrating things it seems to take over and builds itself into more than it deserves.

“Prolific.” That was the word I was after. Not “prodigious.” I got stuck with “prodigious” and the blinders were up. One phone call to my wife and there it was. “Are you thinking ‘prolific?’” she asked.

I could search in vain, but the answer is, like the flashlight/lantern, here in my house. I’m lucky and quite the marriage enthusiant.