Specificity moves me. Like how a tree can be an American Sycamore or a dog a Peruvian Inca Orchid. If I’m reading romantic fiction and the narrator observes vases filled with common chokeberry and Rocky Mountain penstemon, I couldn’t care less that she is a medical resident with no believable knowledge of plants. I especially can’t get enough of precision mixed with musicality, which is probably why I was a terrible waitress: always thinking aus jus de jour, which wasn’t even on the menu. If I saw a tornado coming toward me, I’m afraid I might sing diffluence! a split-second before sheltering. I have evolved my dog’s name from Gumbo to Gumbotron to Buga to Battle of the Boyne. It’s a mouthful to call, but he always comes running to the trumpet of its deposition.