Dictionary, though worn, is a treasure

If you turn to Page 440 in the dictionary on my office desk, you will find the entry for "duct tape." You also will find its definition: "a very strong adhesive tape with a waterproof backing, used to seal ducts, hoses, etc."

Etc., in this case, includes my dictionary. Scribbled in the margin on that page are two words connected by a line to the duct-tape entry: "See cover."

Close the dictionary and you will notice its navy-blue cover and, in fact, more duct tape: a couple of feet of the silvery stuff, securely holding the 1,700-page reference book together.

You see, at the tender age of 6, my beloved Webster's New World College Dictionary, Fourth Edition, was falling apart. Its condition was from overuse, not abuse. During a typical day, I go to it many times, checking spellings, definitions, usages, synonyms.

My good old Webster, as stout and dense as a seasoned politician, holds a plethora (Page 1106) of arcane (Page 72) and mesmerizing (Page 903) treasures. Does the sentence I'm editing require "discreet" or "discrete"? Webster knows. Did the writer correctly use "comprise"? Ask Webster. Do those hyphens belong in "bric-a-brac"? You know where to look.

As many times as I've turned to that book for enlightenment, I should know it by heart. I don't have a photographic memory, though, although my Webster does (Page 1084). I still find jewels buried within its pages.

For instance, "phreak" is a word I'd never seen before, short for "phone phreak," a person who hacks into long-distance lines. "Nutant" sounds like "mutant" but describes a plant that droops. "Farkleberry" is not a children's cereal but a small evergreen with black berries. Surprising to me, the first pronunciation listed for "grimace" is gri-MACE, not GRIM-iss.

And though there are listings for "corncake," "corndodger," "cornflakes" and "cornmeal," my favorite, "corn bread," is two words. Go figure.

I've gone to that dictionary so faithfully that it often opens to the very page I need. Each time that happens, I get a little Twilight Zone chill, as though someone (Noah Webster, perhaps) were trying to tell me something.

Being a compendium of the English language, it contains all the words in use, even those we shouldn't sneak into polite conversation. That's understandable, I suppose, but all too often these naughty words show up as the guide words atop each page that show the range of words found on that page. You know: mule/multipartite, gunnysack/guttersnipe, air guitar/Ajax. @#$%/*&$!

Even with its thousands of entries, my dilapidated dictionary doesn't have every word I need. That's why you will find on Page 538 the notation "flarm" penned in between "flaring" and "flash."

What is flarm? I have no idea. One day as several of us in the office were discussing the dictionary (oh, come on, you know you do it), we hit on the idea of inventing words the language needed. I have long forgotten my suggestion, but co-worker Adam Smith wasted no time in flinging "flarm" into the discussion.

Despite constant nagging, I have never been able to squeeze the definition of this wannabe word out of Adam. For that reason, I have added it to my dictionary as a universal word, the most accommodating word in the book. It means what I need it to mean. For instance, "I'm feeling all out of flarm today." Or, "He walked flarmly into the room." Or, "It was a dark and flarmy night."

That's my dictionary for you. From its cover to its innards, it's chock-full of everything from A to Z, or, more correctly, everything from duct tape to flarm.

Reach Glynn Moore at (706) 823-3419 or glynn.moore@augustachronicle.com.