Breaking Out of Your Lexicon
On Writing Poetry & Prose
Every writer, sorry, every person, cultivates a lexicon: a personal constellation of words and phrase that we instinctively pull from when we speak (or are crafting sentences). Think of it as a linguistic fingerprint, your go-to toolbox, or your brain’s personalized thesaurus. It might lean precise and elegant, or raw and visceral—silly or even didactic; but all familiar phrasing, no matter how effective initially, eventually blunts the power of your words. A stale lexicon will weaken your work.
Why Fresh Language Matters
Great poetry or prose colors the page; it’s filled with fresh language. It defamiliarizes (i.e., it makes familiar phrases strange again—new—causing us to slow down, and reviving their impact). This freshness, this linguistic surprise, shakes readers awake, forcing them to see the ordinary anew.
If your writing feels like it’s lost its pulse, you may be drifting in linguistic autopilot. Our brains are efficient. Our minds are wired to conserve energy. Once a phrase becomes linked to a feeling or idea, our neural pathways grab it on repeat: “gut-wrenching,” “scared to death,” “holding space,” “heavy heart.” These phrases may have once sparked recognition, but now they often pass through a reader unnoticed. They ring hollow. They carry the shape of feeling, without the substance.
Fresh language, by contrast, feels like it arrives from somewhere outside yourself. It’s the line you reread and wonder, where did that come from? It’s earned, not automatic.
5 Ways of Waking Your Words Up!
Breaking out of your Lexicon is not as simple as it might seem. You might say, well I’ll just avoid common phrases…but have you ever tried to imagine a color thats not visible on the spectrum? Well, thankfully, refreshing your vocabulary is a bit easy than that, it just takes a bit of commitment and time. To strengthen your prose and escape habitual word choices, here are 5 practical and creativity-enhancing practices
1. READ (i.e., close readings)
To expand your lexicon, you don’t need to memorize a dictionary—you need to shift how you perceive, engage, and recombine language. And there is no better way to that than to read great poetry, where language is concentrated, economic, and sharp-edged. Poems demand each word carry its weight or be cut. Reading poetry is like cross-training for prose—compact, precise, and impactful.
Suggestions: Ocean Vuong, Maya C. Popa, or Ada Limón. Or let yourself be undone by Arlene DeMaris and Carling McManus. And of course we also have incredible talent right here on Substack:
RELATED ESSAY: Why all Prose Artists should Write Poetry
Also, Read Prose that Celebrates Language—that doesn’t just tell a story, but lives inside its language. Robert Macfarlane builds whole topographies from etymology. Maggie Nelson cuts sentences so clean they shimmer. Robin Wall Kimmerer teaches you that a sentence can smell like soil.
HOT BUTTON: There is a growing trend of writers not reading as much as they write. I would argue that you would need to read more than you write to be a great writer. And regardless of what you write poetry sharpens language into its most potent forms, delivering metaphor, rhythm, and vivid imagery that can revitalize your lexicon. You have to read to improve as a writer. Yes, reading is time consuming but so is bad writing and heavy editing: the more you read the better your first drafts get.
2. Revel in Etymology
Exploring word origins opens previously unnoticed dimensions of meaning. Dig deeper with resources like Etymonline.com. Understanding where a word came from, how its evolved, and it’s original intention, opens a whole new world to the ways it can be used and/or played upon.
Exercise: Choose the three most frequently-used words in your writing—perhaps "liminal," "longing," "aching." Banish them for a week. Instead, look them up and find other words from their etymological history. Then introduce fresh alternative terms that demand exploration.
Etymology is a secret portal too. The origin of a word is often more electrifying than the word itself. “Window” comes from the Old Norse vindauga—wind-eye. Suddenly, a window isn’t just a pane of glass, but an organ that breathes weather. When you trace a word back, it comes alive again.
3. Cross-Pollinate with Workshops.
Workshops are great for making new connections and growing your skillset, but taking them workshops outside your preferred genre or niche offers new linguistic perspectives. Poets lend metaphoric brevity to prose; novelists share clarity and narrative pacing with poets; screenwriters demonstrate the profound sense of movement and spatial awareness. Anytime we dip into other genres or skills or any network of interest, we are expanding our lexicons naturally.
4. Playing with Language
Use anthropomorphism by attributing emotions to non-sentient objects.
For example, "a kettle whistles, angry on the stove."
Play with colors by substituting objects for their hues.
For example, describe the sky as a "robin’s egg ceiling," or someone’s eyes might be “dollar-bill green”.
Leverage associations—describe familiar items with unexpected analogies.
For example, a window becomes "boxed sky," or rain "tapping fingers."
Invert idioms or turn well-known phrases to disrupt reader expectations.
For example, transform "at the end of my rope" might be "im at the beginning of my rope, but the ends on fire."
Challenge automatic sayings—these clichés bypass the reader’s attention entirely. Instead, aim to freshly express common sentiments.
For example, replace "heavy heart" with something surprising like "kettle-bell heart."
Engage all 5 senses. And remember texture!
For example, what texture is jealousy? Consider "sandpaper beneath silk."
Embrace Synesthesia. Blend sensory details to reinvigorate abstract concept.
For example, what does joy smell like?
Explore unconventional uses.
For example, a shoe becomes "a lazy doorstop," or a spoon "a tiny mirror."
5. Tunneling
Tunneling: Letting your mind play into associations until you come up with fresh language.
This can work in terms of scope too, or scientific language, or scale—you can zoom in or out, but the point is to almost meditate on your subject until you find new perspectives worth sharing.
Excercise: What color is grief? Perhaps it's purple. What is Purple? A bruise. What is a Bruise? Trapped Blood. And What is Grief again? Perhaps grief is blood trapped beneath thin skin.
Categorical Fallacies To Try:
What is the sound of Joy?
What is the texture of Envy?
What is the taste of love?
What does anger look like?
What does grief smell like?
Thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this post please tap a heart onto it. It’s a cute metric, but it helps my work travel further, and in turn, me grow as a writer. —N.J.
