A word that’s spelled like how feels to say.
As every dorky seventh-grader knows, onomatopoeia is what we call it when a word’s spelling emulates its own sound.
Bump! Blam! Zlorp! (yes, zlorp…)
We think of them as play words, childlike and fun, connoted as they are so often with children’s literature, comics, and cartoons. Batman’s Biffs! and Thwacks! The cold snikt of Logan’s claws. The thwip of Spidey’s webs… Nightcrawler brimstone BAMFs…
But onomatopoeia aren’t just fantasy sounds. They’re like us. They’re dull. They hide all around, studding our drudge as we slap our blaring alarms in the morning and honk or our horns in traffic. We click our mice and tap our keyboards. We Scratch our scalps. Rattle the ice in our empty cold brew as we flip through magazines and crunch on our salads (as opposed to that dripping, sizzling burger your buddy got).
Everywhere smartphones ring and emails woosh and elevators chime as we shuffle and gabble and prattle and chatter and whisper and hollar and whine through the beeping and splashing and crashing and roaring and plinking and belching and zipping and zooming and tearing and hissing and hooting and blaring, tintinnabulatory world.
But there’s something else I’ve noticed: A species of word so seemingly similar to onomatopoeia, it’s often overlooked. These are words that aren’t merely spelled to emulate their sound – rather, the work it takes to sound them emulates what mean.
Not onomatopoeia… but onometapoeia.
Ever notice how smooth the word smooth is? Say it out loud to yourself. Smooooooooth. No bumps. No wrinkles. Not one ruckled phoneme. Smooth is pure smoothness from tip to tail. It slips effortlessly from the mouth like a hand over a bedsheet.
Think of the journey a slip takes. How it slides on the slick s, then lifts off the palate on the l, hovers aloft for the breath of the i, before collapsing finally on the cold, terminal p. Every slip slips from the lips.
Say it to yourself. Do it now. I dare ya. Slip.
Spot one, and you’ll start to see onometapoeiae everywhere
How lazy lazys feel luxuriating across a sentence, stretching out like housecats. How looms loom long and dark, and boats bob on the buoyancy of their vowels, hulled by consonants. Every fling is flung from your teeth and tongue. Even tongue. It fills the mouth to say its name.
These words are little stories of themselves. Sleeks dive like falcons. Swamps feel like boots stuck in mud. Yonder echoes. Lather foams. Wrench and pry take oomph and muscle. Your ear might hear a bell ring. But you can feel in your mind the wring of a washcloth.
Slink. Velvet. Snuggle. Swivel. Frond. Crouch. Shine… They’re endless.
Even nipple is a story of itself. A sprightly bump, it juts and puckers, calling unanticipated attention to itself. Have you ever heard someone say nipple in casual conversation? It’s so… nippleish… innocent and dirty at once.
All this to say… look around at the words around you, and lean closer to the ones you can hear. And if you can’t find an onometapoeia… just look down. There are two (hopefully) waiting for you just under your shirt.