The word ‘thesaurus’ comes from the Latin word for ‘treasure.’ Words are gems, stored in a book for quick reference, a treasure chest.
That metaphor strikes the Doc as fitting. He learned in graduate school that the Anglo-Saxon poets, known as ‘scops’ or shapers, were said to keep their poetic language in a ‘word-hoard.’ The ‘hoard’ was also the place where dragons kept their treasures.
Dr. Ink consults the dictionary every day. But why, oh why, has he not consulted a thesaurus since 1978? Doc remembers the year. He was working at the St. Pete Times as a writing coach and was helping a cop reporter with a story on medical examiners. The reporter called them “the Sherlock Holmeses of medicine.” That awkward plural jarred the Doc’s delicate ear. So Doc looked up ‘detective’ in the thesaurus and, among many synonyms, found ‘bloodhound,’ which the writer snatched for his story.
The best wisdom Doc has heard is to use the thesaurus, not to learn new words, but to remind you of words you already know.
In Doc’s youth (around the sixth grade) he discovered he could impress teachers by using big words. Instead of ‘chew,’ Baby Doc wrote ‘masticate.’ Instead of ‘confuse,’ he wrote ‘obfuscate.’ Instead of ‘lie,’ he wrote ‘prevaricate.’ In other words, Doc could have his cake and eat it too.
Then Doc read George Orwell’s essay “Politics and the English Language,” in which the Big O shows the relationship between political and linguistic corruption. O’s advice is never use a long word where a short one will do; and to prefer the punchy Anglo-Saxon to the puffy Latinate. Doc tossed his thesaurus.
Now he’s having second thoughts.
Would Doc have used better words in this essay if only he’d consulted a thesaurus?
