I thought I knew the word - until an audiobook told me different

As a keen reader of US fiction, I’ve seen the word a thousand times: clapboard. The stuff of Californian bungalows and Cormac McCarthy. What Australians call weatherboard, overlapping lengths of pine nailed in place, just as the word is fixed in my reading memory.

Then came an audiobook to shiver my timbers. Suddenly, I heard of “clabberd” houses, stopping mid-walk to adjust my ear-buds. Maybe the author meant clobbered, as in storm-struck houses, though no twister or space junk was mentioned. I hit rewind. Relistened. Yep, definitely clabberd. And then the penny dropped. I’d fallen for a sight word.

At some point, we’ve all fallen victim to Calliope Syndrome.Credit: Getty Images

QI elves, the brainiacs behind that show’s questions, call it Calliope Syndrome, when a word you know by sight delivers facial egg when you utter it. Calliope is a classic example in both senses. You meet the steam organ on the page, or its Greek muse namesake, and presume the word rhymes with antelope. Wrong. Coloscopy is a closer match, and probably less painful.

Closer to home, we recognise this slip as hyperbole syndrome, honouring former PM Julia Gillard who lent that problematic word a Tupperware vibe in 2011, speaking of hyper-bowls on The 7:30 Report. Notably, calliope and hyperbole own Greek roots, up there with pedagogy and paradigm: two more booby traps.

Derision came fast after Gillard’s “fox-pass” – though we all do it, readers especially. From awry to zabaglione, we meet a word in writing, and test its sound in our minds. Gunwales, say, imply a Cardiff revolver more than the sonic twin of funnels, just as the cotoneaster suggests a Lent crib, until you give it breath.

Granny Clampett, of all people, taught me how to say victuals. A dozen YouTube videos have coached us in acai and Saoirse. There’s no shame in having a crack, so long as we don’t rely too heavily on satnav savants, those dashboard bots who direct us to Kinneton instead of Kyneton, or Jim-pee as Gympie. Where exactly? Maybe AI could do with a few elocution lessons.

Saoirse Ronan: don’t call her Sayo-ear-say.Credit: Jordan Strauss/Invision/AP

Kinder listeners will know a wonky epitome when they hear one, a dodgy heinous, lending guidance. Just as adults echo an amended Yosemite Sam to a kid. Lovingly, intent to see their reading confidence mirror their gumption to speak.

Macabre is exactly that. Who can blame a reader for murdering that monstrosity? Ennui is ridiculous. Quinoa? Please. Invented by a sadist. In fact, the one time a fox-pass will bite is when you claim the mantle of authority. Spare a thought for newsreaders, say, updating listeners on Belarus tennis seeds, Icelandic volcanoes, or this year’s tragic collision above the Potomac.

I recall when a financial adviser lost his audience at a seminar. His credibility. The keynote was humming, his buzzwords buzzing, only for the magic to dispel with “juckapose”. Doubts haunted the pundit’s J-curves thanks to one lousy J-word. Evidence suggests we forgive our peers for a wayward minestrone, but call yourself an Italian chef and blow that? You’re bruschetta.

As an ABC broadcaster, especially during fire season, I know the responsibility of nailing down phonetics. Albany and Derby are old hat, or should be, etched in your fox-pass playbook. The good people of Mirranatwa, or nearby Woohlpooer, won’t appreciate their towns being mangled into bad charades. If things are going awry, or locals run the risk of being clobbered, then best to make your syllables sound.

To read more from Spectrum, visit our page here.

Get tips, tricks and word games from our crosswords guru, plus links to our online puzzles and quizzes, delivered to your inbox every Saturday. Sign up for our Puzzled with David Astle newsletter.