A Journey Through Some of the Best Obsolete English Words

You know what is really annoying? At the risk of sounding like an ultracrepidarian, we simply cannot abide a slubberdegullion cockalorum who behaves like a mumpsimus day after day.

You know the type: a confirmed fudgel, and frequently a lanspresado, who groaks at every meal, drains the good cheer from every room, and somehow gives the rest of us a spiritual curglaff by negating even the apricity of the environment.

If those sentences made perfect sense to you, congratulations: you either have an unusually muscular vocabulary or you have been trapped in a Shakespearean insult factory. If they didn’t make sense, do not worry. That is precisely why we are here.

English is a magnificent language, by which we mean it is less of a language and more of a junk drawer with a passport. Open it up, and you will find noble words for love, justice, beauty, and transcendence. Dig a little deeper, and you will find words that sound like something a wizard would say to summon a bad nasty from another dimension.

The tragedy is that many of these words have fallen out of ordinary use. We have somehow allowed perfectly good vocabulary to sit abandoned in the dictionary basement while we keep overworking the same tired phrases. We say someone is “annoying” when we could say he is a cockalorum. We say someone is “stubbornly wrong” when mumpsimus is standing right there, wearing a velvet smoking jacket and begging to be useful. We say someone is “pretending to work,” when the world has already given us fudgel, a word so efficient it deserves its own corner office.

Join us as we rummage through the attic of the English language to recover some of its strangest, funniest, and most criminally underused words. Some are insults. Some describe oddly specific experiences. Some are beautiful. Some are useful. Some sound as if they were invented after someone hit his thumb with a hammer but didn’t want to get his mouth washed out with soap.

All of them deserve a comeback.

Ultracrepidarian: The Expert in Everything Except Expertise

An ultracrepidarian is someone who gives opinions on subjects they know little or nothing about.

In other words, the ultracrepidarian is not merely wrong. Wrongness is forgivable. We have all been wrong. Some of us have even been known to own up to it, usually after being cornered by overwhelming documentary evidence and the resigned stares of loved ones.

No, the ultracrepidarian is wrong with authority. This is the person who has not read the book, studied the issue, visited the place, met the people, or understood the terms, but nevertheless speaks with the confidence of a man announcing the location of the bathroom in his own house.

The word traces back to the Latin phrase ultra crepidam, meaning “beyond the sandal” or “beyond the sole.” The traditional story involves the ancient Greek painter Apelles, whose work was criticized by a shoemaker. The painter accepted the shoemaker’s comments about the sandal in the painting, since that was within the man’s expertise. When the shoemaker then started criticizing the rest of the artwork, Apelles supposedly told him not to judge beyond the shoe.

It is a wonderful origin story, partly because it is ancient, and partly because it proves people have been offering opinions outside their expertise for thousands of years. Civilization advances; human nature sits in the corner wearing a fake mustache.

The modern world is a paradise for ultracrepidarians. Social media gives everyone a platform. Cable news gives everyone a chyron. Comment sections give everyone a shovel and absolutely no instruction manual. We live in an age when a person can read half a headline, misunderstand three terms, and within minutes be explaining macroeconomics, constitutional law, epidemiology, military strategy, theology, and the proper way to cook brisket.

We discussed this phenomenon in our article about the Dunning-Kruger Effect, and hopefully with enough research and source material that we did not come across as ultracrepidarians.

Mumpsimus: Wrong, Corrected, and Proud of It

A mumpsimus is a person who stubbornly clings to a mistaken word, phrase, belief, or practice even after being corrected.

An ordinary mistake should be a temporary visitor. A mumpsimus builds an addition, installs crown molding, and applies for historical landmark status.

The classic origin story involves a medieval priest who supposedly misread the Latin phrase sumpsimus as mumpsimus during Mass. When corrected, he allegedly refused to change, saying he would not give up his old mumpsimus for someone else’s new sumpsimus.

That is not just error. That is error with tenure.

We all know mumpsimuses. They pronounce a word incorrectly, are corrected, and then double down as if pronunciation were a property dispute. They repeat a historical myth after being shown the evidence. They forward the same debunked story every holiday season with the determination of a carrier pigeon who has joined a conspiracy forum.

The mumpsimus is not necessarily unintelligent. That would be too easy. The real trouble is pride. Being wrong is uncomfortable. Being publicly corrected is even worse. For some people, accepting correction feels like handing the enemy the keys to the city. Better, apparently, to remain wrong forever than to suffer the indignity of learning.

This makes mumpsimus one of the most useful lost words in English. We need it in politics. We need it in family debates. We need it in office meetings. We need it whenever someone says, “Well, I still think…” immediately after the facts have been brought into the room, seated comfortably, and introduced by name.

Cockalorum: The Rooster in Human Form

A cockalorum is a boastful, self-important person. It can also describe boastful talk.

This is a word with feathers. You can hear the strut in it. A cockalorum does not simply enter a room. He arrives, usually with imaginary trumpets. He is the sort of person who gives himself a nickname, quotes himself approvingly, and treats every conversation as a hostage situation until he has finished explaining why he is indispensable.

The cockalorum may not actually be powerful. In fact, part of the word’s charm is that it often suggests someone whose self-importance has overstayed his actual importance for longer than your neighbor has borrowed your power tool.

Every institution has cockalorums. Offices have them. Committees have them. Neighborhood associations have them in terrifying abundance. Give a cockalorum a laminated badge, a reserved parking space, or control over the thermostat, and you may witness the birth of a constitutional crisis.

The English language has many words for arrogance: braggart, blowhard, peacock, swaggerer, windbag. Those are fine words. Useful. Dependable. But cockalorum has music. It does not merely identify the offender; it makes him sound faintly ridiculous, which is often the most accurate thing one can do.

Snollygoster: The Politician Nature Warned Us About

A snollygoster is a shrewd, unprincipled person, especially a politician.

There are words that sound better than they have any right to sound, and snollygoster is one of them. It has the shape of a carnival creature and the moral content of a campaign consultant. You do not need to know what it means to know that you probably should not leave one alone with the petty cash or small children.

The snollygoster is not merely corrupt. Corruption can be clumsy. The snollygoster is clever. He knows where the exits are. He remembers who owes whom a favor. He can denounce a position in the morning, adopt it at lunch, and claim by dinner that he invented it while standing bravely against people who resemble his former self with suspicious accuracy.

This word feels particularly American, not because other nations lack unprincipled opportunists, but because Americans have always had a gift for giving colorful names to political pests. A snollygoster is the sort of figure who gives a speech about principle while checking the wind direction with both hands.

It is a shame the word is not more common. “Unprincipled political operator” sounds like something in a civics textbook. Snollygoster sounds like the creature itself has wandered into the chamber, knocked over a chair, and begun fundraising.

Quockerwodger: The Puppet Who Thinks He Is the Puppeteer

A quockerwodger originally referred to a wooden puppet controlled by strings. Later, it came to be used for a person, especially a public figure, controlled by someone else.

This is another word that feels almost too good for politics. A quockerwodger is the official face of the operation, but not necessarily the brain. He moves. He gestures. He speaks. Somewhere else, a hand is doing the important work.

To be fair, this can describe more than politicians. Businesses have quockerwodgers. Organizations have quockerwodgers. Families occasionally have quockerwodgers, especially when one spouse says, “We have decided,” in a tone that suggests the decision was made elsewhere and merely delivered through the approved spokesperson.

There is something wonderfully undignified about the word. It is hard to maintain an aura of command after being called a quockerwodger. The syllables themselves trip over one another like a puppet whose strings have been tangled in the drawer.

And yet the word is useful because it captures a real human arrangement: visible authority without real independence. The quockerwodger is not powerless, exactly. Puppets can still do damage. Ask anyone who has ever sat through children’s theater performed by an overenthusiastic youth group.

But the quockerwodger reminds us to ask a useful question: who is actually pulling the strings?

Groak: The Silent Art of Food-Based Emotional Pressure

To groak is to stare silently at someone while they are eating, hoping they will share.

This may be the most perfectly dog-shaped word in the English language.

If you have ever tried to eat a sandwich in the presence of a pup, you have experienced groaking. The dog does not bark. The dog does not demand. The dog simply stares, radiating hunger, hope, betrayal, and legal entitlement. You begin eating as an independent citizen and finish as a defendant.

Humans groak, too. Children groak. Roommates groak. Coworkers groak when you open something delicious at your desk. There is always one person who says, “Oh, that looks good,” in a tone that suggests civilization itself depends on your willingness to surrender half a cookie.

The beauty of groak is that it names a behavior everybody recognizes but rarely names. It is not begging, exactly. Begging requires words. Groaking is quieter and more morally complicated. It is a stare with a business plan.

We should bring this one back immediately. The next time someone hovers beside your lunch with the expression of a starving Dickensian orphan, simply say, “Please stop groaking.” They may not know what you mean, but the shame will find them eventually.

Lanspresado: The Friend Whose Wallet Is Always on Sabbatical

A lanspresado is a person who conveniently has no money; a freeloader.

Not someone who is truly in need. That is different. A lanspresado is the person whose poverty is theatrical, selective, and timed with the arrival of the bill. His wallet disappears more reliably than a magician’s rabbit. His debit card fails with the punctuality of sunrise. His Venmo is “acting weird,” which is apparently modern society’s version of a shipwreck.

The lanspresado does not merely forget money. He specializes in forgetting money in social situations where other people have money. He is a financial weather system that only rains on friends.

Every group eventually develops protocols for dealing with the lanspresado. Some rotate who pays. Some refuse separate checks. Some establish complex verbal traps before dinner, like detectives interrogating a suspect. “You brought your wallet, right?” “Your phone works, right?” “Your bank account has not been seized by the Illuminati, correct?”

The word is obscure, but the person is not. The lanspresado has been with us since the first humans gathered around a fire and one of them said, “I would have brought mammoth, but I left it in my other loincloth.”

Slubberdegullion: The Cadillac of Insults

A slubberdegullion is a dirty, slobbering, slovenly, or worthless person. It is also one of the most satisfying insults ever assembled from spare parts.

Some insults are sharp. Some are elegant. Slubberdegullion is neither. It is a sack of potatoes falling down a staircase. It is excessive, lumpy, and glorious. You do not call someone a slubberdegullion lightly. You call someone a slubberdegullion when “mess” seems too polite and “disappointment” lacks upholstery.

The word feels old because it is old, and it belongs to that grand English tradition of making insults long enough to require planning permission. It is not content to describe moral failure. It brings in hygiene, posture, social worth, and possibly table manners.

Besides, some people are simply not served by modern vocabulary. “Jerk” is too small. “Slob” is too narrow. “Scoundrel” is too theatrical. Slubberdegullion arrives with a full marching band and a mop.

Fudgel: The Ancient Art of Looking Busy

To fudgel is to pretend to work while actually doing nothing.

This word should be posted above every office printer in America.

Fudgeling is not laziness in its pure form. Pure laziness stays home. Fudgeling shows up, arranges papers, sighs audibly, moves a mouse, opens a spreadsheet, and stares at the screen with the expression of a person making difficult decisions about international shipping routes.

The fudgeler understands that work is partly performance. He knows the value of purposeful walking. He carries folders. He says things like “circling back” and “bandwidth.” He schedules meetings to discuss meetings. If cornered, he can produce a sentence so dense with business language that everyone loses the will to investigate further.

Technology has only improved the art. Once, the fudgeler needed props. Now he needs only a laptop and the ability to look mildly inconvenienced. An open document, a furrowed brow, and a well-timed “Sorry, I was on mute” can cover a multitude of sins.

The word deserves restoration because it names something ancient and universal. Somewhere in Mesopotamia, a man was absolutely leaning on a clay tablet while pretending to update the barley inventory.

Callipygian: Classical Elegance, Anatomical Specificity

Callipygian means having beautifully shaped buttocks.

It is difficult to improve on that definition, and frankly it would be irresponsible to try too hard.

The word comes from Greek roots meaning “beautiful” and “buttocks,” which is exactly the sort of directness one appreciates in the classics. Greek gave us philosophy, democracy, geometry, tragedy, and apparently a very dignified way to say, “Nice rear end.” Civilization is complicated.

What makes callipygian delightful is the contrast between sound and meaning. It sounds scholarly. It sounds like something a professor might say while adjusting his spectacles during a lecture on marble sculpture. Then you look it up and discover that the professor has, in fact, been discussing the architecture of the backside.

There is a famous ancient statue known as the Venus Callipyge, or Aphrodite Kallipygos, whose name is commonly understood to mean “Aphrodite of the beautiful buttocks.” This proves two important points. First, human beings have always been human beings. Second, putting something in Greek makes it feel 73 percent more respectable.

Used carefully, callipygian can be playful, literary, and oddly elegant. Used carelessly, it can get you removed from a dinner party. As with many powerful tools, discretion is advised.

Admit it: you’re already trying to figure out how to use this word sometime today, aren’t you?

Apricity: A Small Mercy from the Winter Sun

Apricity means the warmth of the sun in winter.

After all those insults, it is pleasant to encounter a word that does not seem likely to start a family argument.

Apricity is a beautiful word for a beautiful sensation: that unexpected warmth on your face during a cold day, when the air is still sharp but the sunlight briefly remembers it has responsibilities. It is the universe offering a complimentary sample of spring.

The usefulness of the word is obvious to anyone who has endured winter in a place where the sky becomes the color of wet laundry for three months. Apricity is not warmth in general. It is not summer heat. It is not the sticky oppression of August, when the atmosphere feels like soup and everyone becomes a worse version of themselves.

Apricity is specific. It is winter sunlight doing its best under difficult circumstances. It is the reason people stand near windows in January like houseplants with car keys.

It is strange that such a lovely word fell out of common use. English kept “synergy,” “influencer,” and “snackable content,” but misplaced apricity. History is full of injustices, and some of them involve vocabulary.

Curglaff: The Shock of Aquatic Betrayal

Curglaff is the shock felt when plunging into cold water.

This is another wonderfully specific word. It describes that instant when your body enters cold water and every organ files a formal complaint.

You know the feeling. Someone says the lake is “not that bad.” This person is either lying, numb, or from a culture with different definitions of mercy. You step in. Perhaps you wade bravely. Perhaps you jump, because someone has convinced you that sudden immersion is better. Then the water hits your skin, your lungs forget the script, and your soul briefly leaves your body to consult with management.

That is curglaff.

The word sounds right, too. It has the hard, startled quality of a noise made by someone encountering cold water with more optimism than sense. It is not a graceful word because the experience is not graceful. Nobody experiences curglaff with dignity. Even the most composed person becomes, for half a second, a startled goose in swimwear.

We need this word because “cold” is insufficient. Cold describes the temperature. Curglaff describes the betrayal.

Clinomania: The Bed Has Made a Compelling Argument

Clinomania is an excessive desire to stay in bed.

This is not the same as being tired. Everyone gets tired. Clinomania is the sense that the bed has become not merely furniture but a philosophical position. It is the belief, deeply held and warmly blanketed, that the outside world may continue without your immediate supervision.

The word has a medical sound to it, and it has sometimes been used in that direction, but it also captures a common human experience. There are mornings when the alarm rings and every fiber of your being responds, “Counterproposal: no.”

The bed, after all, is persuasive. It offers warmth, softness, and the absence of emails. The world offers traffic, meetings, weather, and people who use the phrase “quick question” before trapping you in a conversation with no visible exits.

Clinomania is therefore understandable. Not always practical. Not always healthy. But understandable. The blankets make a strong case.

Crapulous: The Morning After Poor Decisions

Crapulous means feeling ill from excessive eating or drinking.

This is a word that should be printed on Thanksgiving napkins.

To be crapulous is not merely to be full. Fullness is respectable. Fullness says, “That was a satisfying meal.” Crapulence says, “I have made a series of choices, and now the mashed potatoes are reviewing them with me internally.”

It can apply to drinking, eating, or any combination of indulgences that seemed reasonable at the time because the second slice of pie was clearly unfinished business. The crapulous person sits slightly reclined, breathing carefully, aware that movement has become theoretical.

The word is useful because it carries judgment without being too harsh. It does not say you are doomed. It says you have overindulged and are now experiencing the constitutional consequences. The republic of your digestive system is in emergency session.

We have all been crapulous at one time or another. Some holidays appear to be designed around it. The word deserves renewed attention, especially during any season in which cheese balls, office parties, and “just one more” become the pillars of civilization.

Zabernism: When Authority Gets a Little Too Fond of Itself

Zabernism refers to the misuse or abuse of military authority.

This is one of the more historically anchored words in our collection. It comes from Zabern, the German name for Saverne, a town in Alsace, where a political scandal erupted in 1913 after military authorities behaved with the kind of restraint and good judgment that makes diplomats reach for stronger coffee.

The term came to describe bullying, intimidation, or overreach by the military. It is not a word one is likely to use while ordering lunch, unless lunch is served by a very severe lunch lady, but it is a useful reminder that language often preserves political scandals long after the details fade.

Many obscure words survive because they are funny. Zabernism survives because it names a serious problem: the danger of authority becoming contemptuous of civilians and accountability. The word may be obscure, but the concept is not. Human institutions have an unfortunate habit of discovering power and then immediately needing adult supervision.

It may not be the funniest word in the group, but it is one of the most useful. Sometimes the dictionary does not just give us insults. Sometimes it gives us warning labels.

Why These Words Deserve a Comeback

The best obsolete English words are not museum pieces. They are tools we accidentally misplaced.

We still have ultracrepidarians, mumpsimuses, cockalorums, snollygosters, quockerwodgers, groakers, lanspresados, slubberdegullions, fudgelers, and the occasional person whose callipygian qualities have been noted with classical restraint. We still experience apricity. We still suffer curglaff. We still occasionally become crapulous, sometimes while insisting that another helping will somehow improve the situation. We still understand clinomania on cold mornings when the alarm clock behaves like a tiny tyrant.

The words faded, but the experiences remained.

That is what makes old vocabulary so delightful. It reminds us that people in the past were not dusty statues speaking in footnotes. They were annoyed by freeloaders. They mocked self-important blowhards. They noticed attractive bodies. They hated cold water. They pretended to work. They enjoyed sunlight in winter. They overate, overslept, overtalked, and overestimated their own expertise.

In other words, they were us, only with better waistcoats and fewer password resets.

English is full of these buried treasures. Some vanished because the world changed. Some vanished because fashion changed. Some vanished because they were difficult to spell, pronounce, or use in a sentence without sounding like you are about to challenge someone to a duel.

But many deserve another chance. A good word does more than label a thing. It sharpens the experience. It gives us a handle. It lets us say, with precision and style, “That person is not merely annoying. He is a slubberdegullion cockalorum of the first order, and I will thank him to stop groaking at my sandwich.”

That is not just vocabulary.

That is culture in its highest form.

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