Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Latin names

Warning: judgy and subjective.

If you’ve been hanging around Scientist Sees Squirrel, you’ll know I have a strange and nerdy fascination with Latin names of plants and animals. People often think (my undergraduates always think) Latin names are long, obscure, boring, and unpronounceable.  But they’re wrong.  Latin names can be wonderful – and I have a series of posts saying so.  They can be delightful to say.  They can celebrate scientific heroes or pop-culture ones.  They can keep alive the memory of people otherwise forgotten.  Sometimes they can do all those things at once.  I think of Latin names as loose threads that, when pulled on, often reveal unexpected and fascinating stories.


But as much as it pains me, I have to admit that some Latin names really are long, obscure, boring, and unpronounceable.  The moth pictured above is Gnorimoschema gallaesolidaginis. I’ve been studying this moth for over 20 years (here’s our first paper about it), and I still don’t know how to pronounce its name.  The genus name seems to come from a Greek root, gnorimos for well known or familiar, mashed onto a Latin one, schema meaning shape.  I don’t know what that tells anyone.  And while the species name is descriptive (gallaesolidaginis makes galls on Solidago), it’s more than a little unwieldy.

And yet Gnorimoschema is far from the worst sin* committed by a namer.  Consider these terrible, horrible, no good, very bad** names:

  • Pseudotyrannochthonius octospinosus, a pseudoscorpion
  • Griseotyrannus aurantioatrocristatus, a flycatcher
  • Weberbauerocereus cephalomacrostibas, a cactus
  • Cryptodidymosphaerites princetonensis, a (fossil) fungus
  • Prolasioptera aeschynanthusperottetii, a gall midge
  • Anaerobiospirillium succiniciproducens, a bacterium
  • Notiocryptorrhynchus punctatocarinulatus, a weevil
  • Lagenivaginopseudobenedenia, a genus of parasitic worms
  • Parapallaseakytodermogammarus abyssalis, Zienkowiczikytodermogammarus zienkowiczi, Toxophthalmoechinogammarus toxophthalmus, Siemienkiewicziechinogammarus siemenkiewitschii, Rhodophthalmokytodermogammarus cinnamomeus, and Gammaracanthuskytodermogammarus loricatobaicalensis, amphipods***.

These names mostly have one thing in common: they try to do way, way too much.  They try to mention a place, and the name of a related taxon, and a descriptive trait, and another descriptive trait, and then modify that with a “pseudo” or a “para” or a “brachy”.  And then they keep on going.

There’s some interesting history attached to this.  Scientists have, for thousands of years, been working to systematically list and describe the species with which we share our world.  A necessary part of this task to assign names to each species, so that we can have a way to talk about them.  In the 1600s and early 1700s, this task was becoming both more urgent and more difficult as European scientists were struggling to classify a flood of specimens coming in from voyages of exploration around the world.  And they were doing this with a pre-Linnaean naming system, and that sucked.

The pre-Linnaean convention for names wasn’t the two-word (genus name and species name) system we’re familiar with today.  Instead, the species name was descriptive – in the sense that it was supposed to describe the named species in a way that distinguished it from all other related species.  That made the name a phrase – sometimes a long phrase, and as more species were named, increasingly a longer and longer phrase.  A name might be, for instance (for a species of poisonwood) Amyris foliis pinnatis, foliolis petiolata, which mean “Amyris – the one with pinnately compound leaves, and the leaflets with petioles”.  These names were cumbersome, and promised only to get more so.

It was, of course, Carl Linnaeus who freed us from these names, by inventing the binomial system we use today****. In the Linnaean system, the naming and describing functions are separated, with the name serving as an indexing device to access a description in the literature.  Our Amyris, for example, can now be just Amyris toxifera, with the naming publication holding the full description.  A name can still be descriptive – A. toxifera is indeed poisonous – but it doesn’t have to be.  Linnaeus invented the possibility of naming a species based on a location (Viola canadensis), after a person (Heteropoda davidbowie), or with any number of other etymologies.  (Arbitrary combinations of letters are even, explicitly, allowed by the naming Codes.)

Like many truly great inventions, Linnaeus’s innovation of name-as-indexer is completely, head-smackingly obvious in hindsight.  It made it possible for us to make names memorable but also accessible.  The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad names I’m picking on here forget about the progress Linnaeus brought us.  They try to encode too much description in the names.  Some description helps make a name memorable, to be sure (although it’s not the only way to do that).  Too much description makes a name clunky; I’d argue most of the names above really are long, obscure, boring, and unpronounceable.

The job of taxonomists is a critical one: we can’t understand or manage our natural world if we don’t know the species, and we can’t know them without describing and naming them.  I make this argument often, to students and to public audiences.  Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Latin names make the argument harder to make.  We’re stuck with the ones we have, but it would be great if we didn’t make more.

© Stephen Heard October 24, 2017

 My usual thanks to curioustaxonomy.net, for compiling most of the examples I use here.  You can read more about Linnaean and pre-Linnaean names in Stearn (1959)

But really, most Latin names aren’t like these. Check out some Wonderful Latin Names:

Image: Gnorimoschema gallaesolidaginis (Lepidoptera: Gelechiidae), © Tom Murray CC BY-ND-NC 1.0

*^In my completely subjective value judgment, of course.

**^I owe this delightfully playful phrase to Judith Viorst’s wonderful children’s book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.   If you don’t know this book, you should.  We’ve all had that day.

***^Thankfully, this batch of amphipod names was later invalidated by the IUZN, the body responsible for the rules of naming for animals.

****^This oversimplifies a bit. He wasn’t the first to use binomial names.  He was, however, the first to do so exclusively, and he was responsible for making the practice standard.

14 thoughts on “Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Latin names

  1. sleather2012

    One of my favourite aphid names, not too difficult to say but I like it, is Paradoxaphis plagianthi. The specific part of the name is the host plant, and I like to think that the Genus reflects the apparent paradox that it is a rare aphid 🙂


  2. taxanama

    To the best of my knowledge the non-biting midges either have difficult genus names or species names and not both together. However, I never came across something as hard as the above.
    Probably something like Stenochironomus poecilopterus (Mitchell, 1908) which I gave it a common name of Spotted wing non-biting midge or Stackelbergina praeclara Shilova et Zelentsov, 1978 which I gave it a common name of Not so clear non-biting midge.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Meredith Swett Walker

    I too love Upupa epops! I also think Turdus Migratorius is a good one because American Robins have a way of projectile pooping on you when handled, so “migrating turd” seems appropriate (though I know that’s not the actual translation)


  4. Sam Flake

    I’ve been dipping my toes into some phylogenetic work with plants and found, right at the top of the list of plant genera, the genus Aa. I thought to myself, this seems like a ploy to get to the top of the list of genera (like you might find AAA Locksmiths in the phone book), and apparently that’s the likely story of the name: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aa_(plant)

    I couldn’t remember having read about it on here so I thought I’d share. “Aa” is really a useless search term, so apologies if you’ve written about it before and I missed it.

    I have no idea how to pronounce it, except perhaps as a short surprised shout.

    Liked by 1 person

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  10. priscianus jr

    I share your fascination with Latin (very often Greco-Latin) binomials, which goes back to childhood perusal of encyclopedias and trips to natural history museums. However, I studied Latin later on, which adds a whole new element of interest and sometimes puzzlement, disappointment, and even anger. I am not so fazed by such sesquipedalian examples as you give, as long as they are well made. Pronunciation may be a bit of a challenge, but challenges can be enjoyable, and so they too can be “delightful to say.”. For example, Gnorimoschema gallaesolidaginis. The genus is pure Greek, and should be pronounced “gno-ri-mó-ske-ma” (accent on third syllable, “sch” hard as in “school”, which is also from Greek BTW; the species is Latin, gal-lye (rhymes with “try: or “sigh”)- so- li- dá-jin-is (accent on the fifth syllable) (the “i” in the last syllable is short, rhyming with “miss”.

    What does bother me, however, is faulty formation of binomial elements. For example, the extinct genus Confuciusornis, discovered as a fossil in the 1990s. I understand the name was chosen to honor the famous Chinese philosopher, but the combining form of Confucius is Confuci-, the final “us” being only a suffix indicating gender, case and number. (And “ornis” of course means “bird” in Greek.) This fits with the latinization of the word “Confucius” from the Mandarin Kǒng Fūzǐ (no different from Linné –> Linnaeus). So it should be “Confuciornis”. I thought there was somewhere an academy or scientific body where at least somebody knew Latin and Greek, to vet these binomials before they became official. If so, somebody was asleep at the switch for this one.

    By the way, the example you give of a wordy, pre-Linnean classification (for a species of poisonwood) “Amyris foliis pinnatis, foliolis petiolata” struck me as grammatically odd, though possible; I thought the last word more likely “petiolatis” (to agree with the ablative plural ending of foliis and foliolis), which would mean “with petiolate leaflets”. Sure enough it is given in the “Encyclopedie methodique, nouvelle edition, Padoue, 1784”, article “Balsamier” no.6, (“Balsamier vénéneux, Amyris toxifera)” as “Amyris foliis pinnatis, foliolis petiolatis planis” (adding the word “planis”, meaning “flat”).

    You are absolutely right, these names are meant to be remembered. Not just as sounds, but as telling something about the thing they stand for (the old naming principle of Plato’s Cratylus, also much insisted on for terminology by the classical physician Galen). That of course helps to lodge both word and thing in the memory.

    Liked by 1 person


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