Ah, words. Those little squiggles we fling at each other to sound smart, express love, start wars, or just get someone to pass the guacamole. Most of the time, we don’t think about where they come from. We just open our mouths and out pops something like “hangry” or “doomscrolling,” and we assume the language gods have nodded in approval. But have you ever stopped mid-sentence and thought: Who the hell came up with that word? Probably not. That’s why I’m here—to ruin casual conversation forever with a snarky exposé on how new words are born, live, and occasionally die in the great linguistic jungle.
The Myth of the Language Police
First, let’s destroy a popular misconception: there is no secret council of old white men in powdered wigs deciding which words are “real.” That’s the Supreme Court. Language, on the other hand, is far more democratic. It’s a free-for-all, a linguistic Thunderdome where the fittest words survive and the weakest get trampled by TikTok trends.
Sure, we have dictionaries, but those are more like passive-aggressive roommates than rulers. They follow language—they don’t lead it. Merriam-Webster doesn’t create words; they just quietly accept them once the Internet has bullied them into submission.
Origins: Where the Word-Magic Starts
So how do new words actually come into existence? There are a few ways, and all of them are as chaotic and human as you'd expect.
1. Coinage (aka, Humans Playing God)
Sometimes, someone just invents a word out of thin air. Like literally plucks it from the ether, throws it into a sentence, and waits to see if anyone notices.
Exhibit A: “Google.” It started as a company name, derived from “googol,” which is math-speak for a 1 followed by a hundred zeros. Then it mutated into a verb—to google—because we’re too lazy to say “search on the Internet,” and now even your grandma tells you to “google it, honey.”
Other examples: Kodak, blurb, nerd. Yes, “nerd” was invented by Dr. Seuss in 1950. A children’s book gave birth to the modern identity of half the tech industry. Let that sink in.
2. Borrowing (aka Linguistic Colonialism)
Human languages are like that friend who “borrows” your clothes and never gives them back. English in particular is a shameless kleptomaniac. We steal from French, German, Latin, Swahili, Klingon—anything that isn’t nailed down.
“Kindergarten?” Stolen from German.
“Tsunami?” Swiped from Japanese.
“Cliché?” Appropriated from French, ironically to describe something overused. You can’t make this up.
The result? English is a Frankenstein’s monster of global vocabulary, stitched together and lurching through time grunting “YOLO.”
3. Compounding (Word Mashups for Lazy People)
Why invent a whole new word when you can just smash two old ones together and call it a day? Behold the linguistic mullet of innovation: compound words.
Words like brunch (breakfast + lunch), spork (spoon + fork), and mansplain (man + explain + unsolicited ego) are linguistic duct tape. They solve problems, sometimes poorly, but with great flair.
Compounding isn’t even new. The ancient Anglo-Saxons were doing it with words like “earhring” (ear + ring), “wordbook” (word + book, aka dictionary), and, probably, “oxfart” (okay, I made that one up—but it feels real, doesn’t it?).
4. Blending (Compound Words on Mushrooms)
Blending is the method where two words get thrown into a verbal blender and emerge as something... vaguely edible.
Examples:
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Smog (smoke + fog)
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Brangelina (Brad + Angelina, RIP)
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Frenemy (friend + enemy, a staple of office culture)
Blends are the funhouse mirror of word creation. They make you feel clever, confused, and slightly annoyed all at once. Like cronut. It’s a croissant and a donut had a love child that nobody asked for but everyone secretly wanted.
5. Acronyms (Words Born in the Corporate Wild)
Acronyms are the PowerPoint presentations of vocabulary: concise, convenient, and soulless. But they get the job done.
NASA, NATO, LASER (yes, that’s an acronym—Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation), and even YOLO. We turn these into real words, and then people pretend they’ve always existed.
Fun fact: “SCUBA” is also an acronym. So every time someone says they went “scuba diving,” they’re technically saying “Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus diving.” Which is like saying “ATM machine.” Redundant, and slightly stupid. But here we are.
6. Functional Shift (Words Changing Careers Midlife)
You know that guy who was an accountant for 20 years and then suddenly decided to become a yoga instructor? Words do that too. It’s called functional shift.
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Google went from noun to verb.
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Adult is now a verb: “I can’t adult today.”
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Text used to be a noun; now we text each other.
Words are sick of your rigid categories, okay? They’re out here living their best lives, refusing to be boxed in by traditional parts of speech. It’s 2025—get with the times.
7. Back-Formation (Reverse Engineering Language)
This is when a longer word spawns a shorter word that wasn’t originally there. Linguistic tail-wagging-the-dog.
Example: Burglar came before burgle. That’s right. People heard burglar and thought, “There must be a verb! He must burgle! Let’s burgle!” And so, burgling became real.
Other examples:
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Editor → edit
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Babysitter → babysit
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Resurrectionist → resurrect (Yeah, that one’s dark.)
It’s the linguistic equivalent of inventing a new nickname and pretending it was obvious all along.
But How Do These Words Stick?
Great question, imaginary reader. Most new words die alone in the urban dictionary, never to be spoken aloud by anyone but a Reddit mod. But some survive. Why?
Because language is a popularity contest. If people use it, it lives. If people don’t, it disappears into the linguistic abyss with “snollygoster,” “twitterpated,” and “YOLO” (RIP, 2013–2015).
New words stick when:
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They fill a gap (e.g., “ghosting” to describe emotional cowardice).
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They’re catchy (e.g., “bae,” because “baby” had too many syllables).
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They’re meme-friendly (e.g., “yeet,” which means... something?).
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They get used in pop culture, music, or viral tweets.
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Your mom accidentally says it wrong and it becomes legendary.
It’s Darwinism, but for syllables.
Who Gets to Decide What’s “Real”?
Nobody. Or rather—everybody. You, me, your cousin who still says “on fleek.” Language isn’t a monarchy. It’s a mob. Words become “real” through usage, not approval. When enough people say a thing, write a thing, meme a thing—it becomes a thing.
Yes, eventually the dictionary will catch up and put it in a boring serif font, but by then it’s already halfway to cringe. The minute Merriam-Webster validates a slang word, it becomes your dad’s favorite new phrase. That’s how linguistic entropy works.
But Isn’t This Ruining the English Language?
Oh, you sweet summer child.
English has been “ruined” for centuries. The grammar purists in the 1700s were clutching their quills over contractions. The Victorians were scandalized by slang. And now we have boomers lamenting “literally” being used figuratively while Gen Z shrieks “rizz” and “no cap.”
Language changes. It always has. It always will. The real danger isn’t change—it’s calcification. If words never evolved, we’d still be saying “thou” and “ye” and asking the bar wench for ale.
The Internet: Word Factory of Nightmares
Let’s talk about the digital elephant in the chatroom: the Internet.
If language was a slow-burning fire for centuries, the Internet dumped a barrel of Red Bull on it and screamed “LET’S GOOOOO.”
Memes, tweets, YouTube comments, Reddit threads, and TikTok captions are birthing words at the speed of light. Some are genius (“clapback”), some are horrifying (“sploot”), and some are just random keyboard smashes that somehow became sacred (skrrt, bussin, mid).
Social media gave the power of word creation to everyone, especially teenagers with ring lights and no impulse control. And you know what? That’s beautiful. And terrifying. But mostly beautiful.
Corporate Buzzwords: The Dark Side of Word Creation
Of course, not all new words are delightful. Some are corporate.
Let’s talk about the words invented in conference rooms that should’ve stayed there.
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Synergize
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Circle back
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Bandwidth (not the Internet kind)
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Pivot (thanks, “Friends”)
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Bleeding-edge
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Solutionize (a war crime in three syllables)
These aren’t words. They’re excuses. They’re verbal camouflage used to avoid admitting no one knows what’s happening in the meeting.
Corporate word vomit spreads like an infection, showing up on LinkedIn posts like “We’re excited to leverage scalable blockchain synergy.” No you’re not, Todd. You’re just trying to sound important before lunch.
The Inevitable Death of Words
Just as new words are born, old ones die. Or worse—they become uncool.
Nobody says “groovy” unironically. “Rad” is hanging by a thread. And “phat” died the moment your gym teacher tried to use it in 2002.
Words fall out of fashion because language, like fashion, moves fast. If you’re lucky, your word gets a retirement home in Scrabble. If you’re not, it becomes a punchline.
Some extinct words:
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Grumpish (irritable)
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Crapulous (excessively drunk—bring this one back, please)
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Twitterpated (lovestruck, from Bambi, 1942)
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Mumpsimus (a person who insists on doing something wrong even when corrected—basically every man on YouTube)
Conclusion: We’re All Word-Makers Now
So, where do new words come from?
They come from everywhere. From your mouth. Your keyboard. Your typo that turns into slang. Your inside joke that escapes the group chat. Your dog’s weird behavior that becomes a verb.
We’re not passive users of language—we’re participants. Co-conspirators in an ever-evolving game of Mad Libs. Every tweet, every meme, every time you say “I can’t even”—you’re shaping the dictionary of the future.
So go forth and word. Make up verbs. Blend some syllables. Commit linguistic crimes. Who knows—your next nonsense utterance might be tomorrow’s Oxford Word of the Year.
Just please... don’t “solutionize” anything.