We turn to the dictionary as the ultimate arbiter of truth. It’s a silent, steadfast authority on our language, a book of rules and records. But what happens when that authority makes a mistake? What if a word, a complete fabrication born from a simple typo, slips past the watchful eyes of editors and materializes in the pages of one of the world’s most respected dictionaries? This isn’t a hypothetical question. It’s the strange, true story of ‘dord’.
A Ghost in the Machine
In 1934, G. & C. Merriam published the monumental Webster’s New International Dictionary, Second Edition. It was a lexicographical masterpiece, containing over 600,000 entries. And there, nestled innocuously on page 771 between “dorcopsis” (a type of wallaby) and “doré” (golden-colored), was a new entry:
dord (dôrd), n. Density.
It looked like a real word. It had a pronunciation guide, a part of speech, and a succinct, scientific-sounding definition. For thirteen years, “dord” lived quietly in the bible of the English language. Readers, writers, and scholars could look it up and, seeing it there, would have no reason to doubt its existence. It was, for all intents and purposes, a word. Except it wasn’t.
The Detective Work of a Lexicographer
The phantom was eventually spotted in 1939 by an associate editor at Merriam-Webster, Dr. Philip Babcock Gove. While reviewing the dictionary, Gove noticed something peculiar about the “dord” entry. It was missing a crucial component that nearly every other word possessed: an etymology. The dictionary prided itself on tracing the lineage of words, yet “dord” had no history, no origin story. It was a ghost, a word without a past.
This lack of an etymology was a major red flag. Gove, who would later become the editor-in-chief for Webster’s Third, initiated an investigation. He delved into the company’s archives, sifted through the original source materials, and began to unravel one of the most famous blunders in the history of dictionary-making.
The Anatomy of an Error
The truth behind “dord” was not a prank or a fabrication, but a simple case of human error—a scribal slip that cascaded through the meticulous but manual process of dictionary creation. Gove eventually found the original typed slip of paper that had generated the entry. It was not for a new word, but for an addition to an existing entry.
The slip was supposed to read:
D or d
This line indicated that the letter “D”, either capitalized or lowercase, could be used as an abbreviation. The line below it provided the meaning:
contr. Density.
The intention was clear: to add “Density” to the list of things that the letter “D” or “d” could stand for, particularly in the fields of physics and chemistry. But somewhere between the original drafter and the final typesetter, a crucial misinterpretation occurred. The typist, seeing the letters and the space in “D or d”, read it as a single, continuous word: “dord.”
In an era before digital files and “find and replace”, dictionaries were compiled from millions of such paper slips. Each slip was handwritten or typed, edited, and passed through numerous hands. In this complex, human-powered assembly line, a simple misreading of spacing was all it took to birth a phantom.
Banishing the Phantom
On February 28, 1947, after years of internal review, an editor issued an order slip that read: “plate change/imperative/delete.” The ghost was officially busted. But how do you delete a word that has already been printed in hundreds of thousands of books sitting in libraries, schools, and homes around the world?
You can’t. While Merriam-Webster corrected the printing plate, removing “dord” from all subsequent printings after 1947, the word lived on in the copies already in circulation. To fill the blank space left by the exorcism, the editors simply expanded the definition of the neighboring entry, “doré.” For years, ‘dord’ haunted the pages of countless dictionaries, a testament to the permanence of the printed word, even when it’s wrong.
Why ‘Dord’ Still Matters
The story of ‘dord’ is more than just a piece of fun linguistic trivia. It offers a fascinating window into the reality of lexicography and the nature of language itself.
The Human Face of the Dictionary
First and foremost, ‘dord’ reminds us that dictionaries are not infallible scriptures handed down from on high. They are created by people—diligent, knowledgeable, and incredibly thorough people, but people nonetheless. The immense task of cataloging an entire language is a monumental human endeavor, and with that comes the potential for human error. ‘Dord’ exposes the beautiful fallibility behind the authoritative facade.
What Makes a Word Real?
‘Dord’ also poses a compelling philosophical question: What makes a word “real”? It had an entry, a pronunciation, and a definition. People looked it up. Did its presence in the dictionary give it a form of life? Most linguists would say no. A word’s legitimacy comes from its use and shared understanding within a community of speakers over time. ‘Dord’ had no origin, no history of use, and no one ever uttered it to mean “density.” It was a definition in search of a word that never was.
More Phantoms in the Pages
‘Dord’ is the most famous “ghost word”, but it isn’t the only one. Sometimes, these non-existent words are created intentionally. Fictitious entries known as “mountweazels” are sometimes inserted into encyclopedias and reference works as a way to protect copyright. If a competitor’s dictionary includes your unique, made-up word, you have proof of plagiarism. The most famous example is Lillian Virginia Mountweazel, a fictitious fountain-pen-to-camera-converter turned photographer, who appeared in the 1975 New Columbia Encyclopedia.
The story of ‘dord’ is the story of a mistake that became a legend. It’s a humble reminder that language is a living, breathing, and sometimes messy thing. Even in its most formal and structured form—the dictionary—there are stories, mysteries, and ghosts hiding between the lines, waiting to be discovered.