Isn’t this a beautiful word? Unlike my previous bon mot, this one pleasantly rolls off the tongue. A sobriquet is an alternative name given to a person, place, or thing that often comes to be more widely used than the original name. For example, calling New York City “The Big Apple” or referring to William Shakespeare as “The Bard”. Typically the name is given by another, not oneself (in the case of a person). I first heard the term sobriquet while reading a delightful book by Martha Grimes, Fadeaway Girl, and tonight I heard it again while watching the TV show White Collar. Though the more I learn about sobriquet, I would argue that the way it was used in White Collar wasn’t quite right. A better word would have been “moniker”, as they were referring to a thief who calls himself “The Architect” but isn’t known by any other name. If you’re going to toss in a word like sobriquet, be sure you’re using it correctly. I forgive them though, as the line was delivered by my favorite character, Mozzie, who can often be heard quoting The Bard as well as many others.
Pulchritude
I read this word for the first time recently. Or maybe I only noticed it for the first time, but I feel I’d have remembered a word like pulchritude. Do you know what it means? If not, pause and take a guess (no peeking!) To me, it sounds like a cross between puke and mulch. Neither of these evokes something lovely or beautiful. And yet…that’s exactly what it means! It’s from the Middle English and means physical beauty. Really. As in, Nicole Kidman is a radiant example of feminine pulchritude. In researching this word, I came across some fun websites, such as this tumblr site, Poisonous Pulchritude. And this blog, Pulchritude Fest. Check ‘em out. And I dare you to say this word aloud to a beautiful woman or man and see if they give you a quizzical look.
Canoodling
“Hey you two, quit canoodling in the kitchen.” said my mother to my husband and I last weekend, when we stole a kiss while doing the dishes. Isn’t that a wonderful word? I first heard it in the 1962 film, The Music Man. If memory serves, it was Buddy Hackett who was musing about canoodling. I thought it was a made up word, much like the song, “Shipoopi” (yes, that’s spelled right) also from The Music Man, hence my confusion. I couldn’t find the Buddy Hackett version, but this one features the delightful Kristin Chinoweth. While I found a few different definitions for canoodling, my favorite is this one from Urban Dictionary: The act of enjoying another’s company by getting close to them. This generally takes place on a couch and activities include but are not limited to: whispering, giggling, hot gossip, pillow talk, and squeezes. It IS socially acceptable to canoodle in areas with others, to a minimal degree, even when some believe it is not. Pillows and blankets are usually associated with canoodling as well. Some restrictions apply, results may vary. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Apothecary
While watching Bones the other day, the word apothecary came up. I love the oldy worldy sound of that word. I feel it should be said with a posh British accent. And hearing it, I picture jars of pills, potions, and maybe eye of newt. Okay, not eye of newt. Did you know apothecary is the historical name for a medical professional who formulates and dispenses medical substances? It’s derived from the Old French “apotecaire” and the Greek word for warehouse. While most times I picture a dusty, musty, old shop, maybe in Diagon Alley, there is another apothecary shop that’s full of sunlight and milkshakes. The Aldrich Apothecary in historic Council Grove, Kansas is a delightful spot. My husband and I first visited it almost 14 years ago, when we honeymooned in that tall grass prairie town that’s just a few hours’ drive from home. We’ve been back a few times since, and we always stop at the apothecary shop, and sometimes we have a malt or milkshake from the soda fountain. What do you think of when you hear apothecary?
Piazza
When I read the word piazza, I’m transported. Okay, that’s not completely true. Sometimes I misread the word as pizza. Which of course doesn’t make sense in the context of the sentence, and I quickly recover and read it correctly. At that point, I inevitably get a vivid image of a small wrought iron table, in a cluster of similar tables. There’s a glass of red wine, a white cloth napkin, and a huge slice of pepperoni pizza. There’s a flower stall nearby, and an artist set up across the street, paint palette and paintbrush in hand, capturing the scene. Well, I don’t always visualize the painter. But the rest of pizza in the piazza is always the same. And one day I’ll make that dream true. Well, maybe not the pepperoni, as I don’t think that’s a feature of traditional Italian pizza. I’m guessing you already know a piazza is a public square or market. And what do you visualize when you hear it?
Intuit
While intuit doesn’t have any unique origins (that I could find), it’s a bon mot because of a recent usage I came across. Intuit means to know intuitively or by immediate perception. That kind of definition isn’t very satisfying. Really, when is it helpful to define a word using that word? Regardless, it all started with an article my friend Cathy (aka @jayhawk100) shared with me recently about one of my favorite authors, Fannie Flagg. Ms. Flagg was the 2012 winner of the Harper Lee award. The writer of the article (who I would credit, but is listed simply as “Press-Register Staff”), does a wonderful job describing Fannie Flagg’s writing. “Her novels, of course, are not factual reminiscences but are artful fiction from which the reader intuits truths. And, much as in a good memoir, the ‘spoonfuls of sugar’ of hindsight and memory help us swallow with less distaste the realizations of life Flagg offers the reader.” To me, that’s saying we don’t always need or want a writer to “sugar coat” our truths, but artful fiction can help us see truth. I sent the article to my husband, as he’s not a reader of fiction, and I’ve been trying to help him see what I see in it. I don’t mind if he chooses not to read fiction; but I would like him to understand why it appeals to me. When he read that, he “got it”, and as he was new to the word intuit, he suggested it be included here. And there you have it.
Nonplussed
This word baffles me. When I hear nonplussed, I picture Sherlock Holmes with his arms crossed, a disinterested stare in his eyes, while Holmes stands by, awaiting a clever deduction. Then I think, no, that’s not right. And I look up the definition, only to find I did have it right. To be nonplussed is to be unfazed, disinterested. But then I read further, and find the word also means bewildered, unsure of how to respond. I somehow doubt that Sherlock spent a millisecond being unsure of how to respond. So does this word mean baffled or does it mean disinterested? I’m feeling nonplussed by this word. It’s an enigma to me. Hmm, now there’s a bon mot.
Like this:
Parsimonious
I’ve been highlighting words right and left in “Cutting for Stone” by Abraham Verghese. I’m still not sure if the book will make my list of favorites, but I’m learning a lot. For example, parsimonious. Though I don’t think I’d heard the word before, it sounded familiar. It made me think of parsing words. Which in my mind somehow gets mixed up with mincing words. They both make me think of mixing and chopping. I knew it didn’t have anything to do with cooking though. Parsimonious means frugal to the point of stinginess. For example, in the story, a young boy who doesn’t talk (but can) is said to be “parsimonious with words.” It sounds very grand, doesn’t it? I certainly hope if you read this you won’t be parsimonious with your comments.
Simulacrum
I don’t know what you think of when you hear the word simulacrum, but I had some ideas (would love to hear yours in the comments). I was surprised to learn that it’s an image or representation of something; a slight, unreal, or vague semblance of something; superficial likeness. Why would you want to know this word? You might need to discuss Greek statuary. Or simulated environments in films such as The Truman Show. Or maybe you’re looking to buy a toaster. Wait, what? That’s right; a toaster. Like the ones available from Burnt Impressions. They started following me on twitter, so I took a look. You really have to see it for yourself, so please take a look. And do let me know if you knew simulacrum before reading this post.
By Your Leave
The phrase, by your leave or “with permission”, is often used with the companion phrase, “Without so much as a…” as in “Without so much as a by your leave.” When used in that way, it refers to something done without the expected permission. I came across it today while reading “Cutting for Stone” by Abraham Verghese for book club. I’ve heard the phrase before, but today it struck me as particularly elegant. While researching it I learned that it was sometimes misstated as “by your liege”. I also learned that there was a 1934 film called “By Your leave”, with this tantalizing description (according to IMDB, my source for all things TV and film): “In the midst of a mid-life crisis, Henry Smith convinces his wife, Ellen, that they should take separate one-week vacations, with no questions asked. He tries to sow some wild oats with a show girl and a paid escort, while she reacquaints herself with a childhood friend, now a famous explorer. Both get more than they bargained for.” Henry is played by none other than Frank Morgan, who you may recall from the title role in that Kansan favorite, “The Wizard of Oz.” Margaret Hamilton, aka the Wicked Witch of the West, also played in “By Your Leave”, portraying a character called Whiffen. True. And with that, I bid you goodbye, by your leave.
Sue Maden
