At one time or another,
My Mother possessed neat words.
They were not her words,
But, they were.
No one used these words with the frequency and comfort that she did.
Thinking back on those small moments,
I believe she was possessed of a love of novel words.
Not so oddly, I also possess this trait in spades.
Finding the right word,
At the right moment,
To achieve the desired effect,
Can be greatly satisfying.
When one receives the Catholic Sacrament Of Reconciliation for the first Time;
One wants to look spiffy, not handsome.
When one passes a Doberman Pincher pinching a loaf into the park bushes;
One wants to say skeevatsah, not gross.
When one passes a homeless person at Downtown Crossing;
One wants to call them a poor snook, not a bum.
When one encounters a person of questionable intelligence;
One wants to call them a Jamocha, not a dope.
When you put it all together:
“Hey, you better avoid that Jamocha, if you want to stay spiffy. It looks like that poor snook rolled through a dumpster. Skeevatsah!”
All administered straight faced and between measured puffs of a Newport.