The right word looks like a cat with a box. If it fits, it sits—even if it oozes over the sides. It gives no thought to the box. It’s the right word, and the right word sits where and when it likes.
It pushes other words out, presses a paw against another cat’s forehead and says, “No, you can’t sit here. This is my spot, and my spot it shall remain.” The word becomes monarch, dictator.
It rules the narrative, demanding everything bend toward or away from it. It often requires revision, sometimes small, sometimes extensive. The box breaks, but the word refuses to move. Everyone and everything around it bows in acquiescence.
They must, for the right word has appeared, a sort of planet or star coming into being. It pulls things into its orbit, sets others flying into space. The word determines the pace, the tone, the imagery.
It, like a cat, refuses to move from the box. The word becomes fixed, immoveable, a sphinx with an impenetrable stare. Its eyes follow you around the room, daring you to make it move. You don’t. You cater to it because you are the better writer, and the better writer lets a word sit if it fits.
Image: davef3138 (Creative Commons)
[…] are the same. They might not always suit the situation, but when they do, they do. Here are some of my current best “b” words, hence the “in praise of the b […]