Defying Definition: Why Fictional Words Cast Such a Spell On Us

Have you ever felt “disgustikafied,” been branded a “rampallion” or had a “frabjous” day? Or are you totally, utterly and “completriciously” confused by these questions? If so, it’s time to brush up on the art of made-up words, because Wicked: For Good is about to bring this brand of delightfully tongue-twisting dialogue back to the big screen.

From “scandalacious” and “decipherate” to “hideoteous,” the musical sequel will weave dozens of nonsensical words into its script—expressions that may raise our eyebrows and prick up our ears but will also spark the creative centers of our brains. And this tradition is far from new. Invented words have been a feature of novels, plays and poems for centuries, crafted to charm and challenge audiences in equal multisyllabic measure.

“Made-up words—sometimes called sniglets—are one of the most fun parts of language,” says Adele Goldberg, linguist and professor of psychology at Princeton University. “Coining a new word can create a kind of secret handshake—a sense of shared intimacy. Of course, the trick is that new words only work if people understand them.”

Wicked, in turn, understands this caveat. Words like “gratitution” and “privishly” may be invented, yet there’s still a certain sense to their nonsense. Each Wicked word has an identifiable root, with the added suffixes serving simply as fantastical flourishes. “And there’s a certain playfulness to drawing out or reshaping familiar expressions,” Goldberg adds, citing “cutie-patootie” as a prime example. “Wicked’s oddball coinages seem to make use of that. They’re absurd, but joyfully so.”

This too is an age-old approach. Shakespeare, for example, coined “brabble” by splicing together parts of “bicker” and “squabble.” This seems almost like cheating—creating a new word from concepts that already fit together, thus sparing the audience any heavy linguistic lifting. But many modern examples follow the same pattern: “hangry,” “smog” and “brunch” sound so natural and catch on so quickly because they blend familiar ideas in a concise way. “They often feel witty because they capture something that’s been hiding in plain sight,” explains Goldberg. “And that same wink of familiarity can come from twisting an old word into a new use—say, Wicked ‘out-snigletted’ itself.”

Gary Lupyan, professor of psychology at the University of Wisconsin, also emphasizes the importance of context in understanding hitherto unseen words. “Words like ‘horrendible’ in Wicked, by virtue of being so close to a conventional English word, can be understood when first encountered,” he says. “Especially if they’re also used in a context where one might expect a familiar word, such as ‘horrible.’”

In these cases, our brains process made-up words much like any other. Even unfamiliar words trigger associations with similar-sounding forms we already know. “And many are portmanteaus,” says Lupyan, “itself a word that Lewis Carroll co-opted to mean made up of two parts, like a portmanteau type of suitcase.”

Carroll is another giant of wordsmithing. Beyond inventing now-common words like “chortle” (which combined “chuckle” and “snort”), the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland author coined “mimsy,” “galumph” and “slithy.” These words may be less ubiquitous than “chortle,” but we can still glean their meanings with relative ease. And yet, while Roman Klinger—professor of language processing at Germany’s University of Bamberg—notes that evoking emotion isn’t usually the primary goal of made-up words, he does concede that their use can invite a level of audience participation.

“I’d assume that words such as Lewis Carroll’s ‘frabjous’ aren’t developed first of all to express an emotional connection,” he explains. “In art, ambiguity is an important element that allows readers to fill gaps themselves, with their own word knowledge and interpretation. Novels and poems often leave space for our own interpretations, and nonsense words leave a lot of space.”

So, while such words can stir emotions, they also provide ambiguity, keeping readers or audiences on their toes. Writers such as Roald Dahl and Dr. Seuss long employed neologisms in this way. Sometimes, however, their purpose is more straightforward: shaping character. In Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 2, a flurry of inventive, acerbic slights—“You scullion, you rampallian, you fustilarian!”—tells audiences almost as much about the insult-slinger as it does the slingee.

“And, by letting fictional characters use words that aren’t part of the established vocabulary,” says Daniela Landert, professor of English linguistics at Heidelberg University, “they become recognizable through their language use.” She adds that Buffy the Vampire Slayer famously used made-up words (“slayage,” “sitch” and “cleavagy”) to strengthen the identities of and bond between the show’s protagonists.

Occasionally, Landert adds, invented words are bigger than the stories that contain them. “Sometimes,” she says, “they create humor and audience engagement by inviting readers to reflect on the wider use of language and the meaning of words. Take Carroll’s Jabberwocky, for instance.” Yet whether it’s “vorpal,” “grinch” or “scrumdiddlyumptious,” the most common function of these neologisms remains to immerse—to introduce audiences to new worlds—from Whoville to Wonderland to Oz—without losing us in them.

In Wicked, Lupyan observes, these words form a particularly firm foundation. “Compare ‘horrendible’ with more conventional terms like ‘horrible’ or ‘horrendous,’” he says. “It’s less about communicating a different sense of ‘horrible’ than about immersing the audience in a world where things are a little different, weird and whimsical. Rather than communicating a specific meaning that conventional words could not, it’s a world-building function.”

And that’s why these words enchant us. Goldberg, noting that “language play thrives in that sweet spot between the known and the new,” explains that while some neologisms invite ambiguity, most—like those in Wicked—are there to guide, inform and entertain us, albeit in a semantically subversive way. “It’s where recognition meets surprise,” she says. “That’s where our ‘sniglets,’ ‘smoglets’ and ‘hangry’ moments live—and where language keeps reminding us it’s a game we all get to play.”