Get with the Pronunciation Program
The program is getting quite challenging now, don’t you agree? Well, for a respite let’s take a brief look at some commonly mispronounced words.
And you just read one of them—respite, which is properly pronounced RES-pit, with the accent on the first syllable, but which is often mispronounced ruh-SPYT, with the accent shifted to the second syllable. A respite is an interval of rest or relief, a lull, hiatus, as “a vacation is a respite from work.” Take care to stress this word on the first syllable: RES-pit.
How do you pronounce the -gram in program? Many speakers today slur it and say PROH-grum. Current dictionaries now countenance this slurred pronunciation, so I can’t say categorically that it’s wrong, but I can state my dogmatic opinion: PROH-grum is illogical and sloppy. The vast majority of speakers don’t slur the -gram in telegram, anagram, cryptogram, monogram, kilogram, milligram, and diagram, so it only makes sense to be consistent and preserve the -gram in program. Pronounce the second syllable to rhyme with ham.
One of the most common speaking errors is misplacing the accent or stress in a word. Misplaced accents are rife among educated speakers today. Just for fun, try this little test:
Do you say in fluence or influ ence; af fluent or afflu ent; super fluous or superflu ous; pref erable or prefer able; com parable or compar able; for midable or formid able; in tegral or integ ral; hos pitable or hospit able; ap plicable or applic able; and last but not least, do you say ex quisite or exquis ite?
In every case, the first pronunciation is preferred. If you check these words in a dictionary, you will find some of the second pronunciations listed, simply because so many speakers now misplace the accent in these words that dictionary editors feel compelled to record the practice. However, take it from me: influ ence, formid able, prefer able, and all the rest are either trendy or flat-out wrong. The traditional and cultivated pronunciations are in fluence, af fluent, super fluous, pref erable, com parable, for midable, in tegral, hos pitable, ap plicable, and ex quisite.
Now let me ask you this: When you make a mistake, do you AIR or do you UR? Properly, the verb to err should rhyme with sir, not with hair. Dictionaries have recorded pronunciation for about two hundred years. The variant AIR for err did not appear in a dictionary until the 1960s; since then, it has become the dominant pronunciation. Although some commentators argue in favor of AIR on the grounds that it links the verb phonically with the noun error, many cultivated speakers and current authorities still prefer UR, and I stand firmly with them. In my book, to AIR is human, to UR divine.
If you’re clever and you prefer to be right, then answer me this: When management and labor try to hammer out a contract, would you say they are engaged in nego-see-ations or in negoshee-ations? When people have strong, opposing views on an issue, would you describe the issue as controver-see-al or controver-shal? If you would have said nego-see-ations and controver-see-al, ask yourself this: Have you always pronounced these words like that, or did you unconsciously change your pronunciation at some point because you heard so many friends, coworkers, and broadcasters pronouncing them that way?
Nego-see-ate and controver-see-al are vogue pronunciations, by which I mean they are trendy and pseudosophisticated. To borrow a phrase from the great authority on language H. W. Fowler, they owe their vogue, or popularity, “to the joy of showing that one has acquired them.” Why have so many people recently decided to say nego-see-ate and controver-see-al? Beats me. All I know is that these pronunciations, to quote one noted authority on language, are “prissy.” There is no good reason to follow the herd and adopt them. Stick with controver-shal and nego-shee-ate, which have served us for generations, and no one will ever stick it to you.
And that goes for the word species too. The alternative pronunciation SPEE-seez, now used by many educated speakers, has been heard since the mid-twentieth century. The traditional pronunciation, SPEE-sheez, has been around since the word came into the language in the fourteenth century. Nevertheless, because of its popularity today among the overrefined, SPEE-seez is recognized by current dictionaries. Not one, however, lists it first. That makes my heart glad, for to my ear this sibilant SPEE-seez sounds SOH-see-uh-lee am-BIS-ee-us and intellectually SOO-purFIS-ee-ul. In my opinion, SPEE-seez is just too PRES-ee-us for words.
To sum up: As you can see, when it comes to pronunciation I am a creature of an altogether different species (SPEE-sheez). I have my own program (don’t slur -gram). I don’t think all pronunciations are comparable (stress on com-); I believe some are preferable (stress on pref-) to others. When I hear someone err (rhymes with sir), it hurts my exquisitely (stress on ex-) sensitive ears. I have formidable (stress on for-) opinions, I am not often willing to negotiate (nego-shee-ayt), and I am certainly not afraid of being controversial (four syllables, with -shul at the end). All that may not make me popular or affluent (stress on af-), but at least I’ve done my homework and I know what I’m talking about. If you choose to follow my advice on pronunciation, no one can rightfully accuse you of slovenly speech.
But that’s enough pontification about pronunciation. Now let’s take a look at some commonly confused words.
First, consider the verbs to imply and to infer, which hordes of well-educated people have a murderous time distinguishing.
To imply is to suggest, hint, indicate indirectly: a person may say one thing and imply another, or someone may think you are implying something when you are not. For example, if you ask a coworker out for lunch, the person may think you are implying, hinting, that you want to get intimate when all you want is some company so you don’t have to stare at the wall while you chew.
To infer means to deduce, conclude, draw a conclusion. You can infer, draw a logical conclusion, from evidence or known facts; you can also infer something from what someone implies. For example, if a client says he needs to think about an offer you have just made, he might be implying that he is unhappy with it, and you might infer that he may go to someone else. As Theodore M. Bernstein puts it in The Careful Writer, “The implier is the pitcher; the inferrer is the catcher.” Someone who implies throws out a hint, a suggestion. Someone who infers catches that suggestion and makes a conclusion, deduction.
Now let’s differentiate between the words disinterested and uninterested. No one ever has a problem with uninterested—it simply means not interested. The trouble starts when people use disinterested to mean the same thing as uninterested. Disinterested means impartial, unbiased, not influenced by selfish motives. In court you want a disinterested judge, not an uninterested one, and at work you want a disinterested boss—a fair, impartial boss —not an uninterested one.
Finally, let’s distinguish between the words anxious and eager. Eager is rarely misused, but you will often hear anxious used in place of eager in such phrases as “Mike is anxious to see the new movie,” or “Amanda was anxious to get a promotion.” Anxious means full of anxiety, worried, nervous, concerned. Eager means showing keen interest or impatient desire. In his helpful guide, The Appropriate Word, J. N. Hook explains that “we are anxious (worried) about harmful things that may happen, eager about things we want to happen.” Thus, Mike should be eager to see the new movie, but anxious about whether he’ll be able to get a good seat. Amanda should be eager to get a promotion, but anxious about handling the greater responsibility of the job.
