Language is an organic thing. Which means it sometimes gets rotten and smells. But also "organic" in the sense that it must grow naturally.
You can't force people to adopt a new word, anymore than you can force a banana to ripen by yelling at it. As far as I know, anyway. It's possible the CIA conducted experiments in the '60s about using vocal inflection to affect banana ripening, as a means of affecting the economies of Central American countries. But …
Sorry, I wandered off there. Let me regroup. New words arise from the will of the people. They can be invented and required by bureaucracies and ideologues, but they always are leaden and stilted, and signify the presence of a humorless bore.
Slang is different, of course. Slang emerges from the mysterious mire of youth and makes its way outward into the population where it confuses and irritates the Olds, who wonder why kids would say "that's so slay" when "totally tubular" is available and looking for work.
I still remember generational confusion around the word "bad." What do you mean it means good? Bad means good? What kind of mixed-up, topsy-turvy world do I live in? Do people walk on their hands and call for cabs by waving their feet? I suppose good now means bad, and in five years the anchorman will say, "There's bad news tonight, as police announce the arrest of a good man," and I won't know what they're talking about.
Yet, somehow we still understand each other.
All of this is a preface to the tiresome attempt by a columnist to coin a new word to fit a particular situation. I have attempted this many times in my career and have met with nothing but abject success. (I mean it turned out bad. Or goodly.)
This time it has to do with snow. As far as I know, there's been only one snow-related neologism that had some success: snirt, the filthy crust that covers old snow in the waning days of winter. Wheel-well snow is snirty. It's a portmanteau of snow and dirt, and even if you don't know that, it sounds like something an old Swedish farmer blows out of a nostril, so you don't like it.
Last week we got snow that quickly turned to ice. It made driving — what's the word? That's right — treacherous. You stepped on the brake, and half a block later you were going sideways through the intersection. When I shoveled the next day, pushing away the thin layer of snow, I revealed a layer of ice. I'm sure hundreds of walkers took a spill and felt their coccyx crack against their cranium.
We didn't get snow. We got snick.
That's my new word. Snick. Snow + slick. "Drive carefully, it's been snicking all day." "You're going to walk the dog? Wear cleats, it's snickers out there."
It's the intermediary step betwixt sleet and snow. Snick. Perfect! Why won't it catch on?
Because … it's a stupid idea? I think that might be it. I shouldn't be surprised if it doesn't enter the vernacular. Consider the last time I tried to invent a word for everyone: I'm not saying it was a failure, but it certainly was sporknacular.
