Synesthesia, a neurological phenomenon where stimulation of one sense involuntarily triggers another, blurs the line between sight, sound, taste, and even emotion. It’s rare, mysterious, and oddly beautiful—a natural mental remix that turns perception into a multisensory experience. –“Why Some People Can Taste Words: The Brainy Phenomenon of Synesthesia,” allgoodhealth.net
Recently, I read an article by a man who documented his journey with synesthesia. I was fascinated and marveled at his description of how each word and name he encountered immediately elicited a particular taste. In his Newsweek article, “I can taste names, some are delicious” (Nov. 8, 2022), Henry Gray explained that “[f]or me, Francesca is one of the most delicious names. It’s like a silky smooth chocolate Frappuccino, filling every crevice of my mouth.” But the name Dana? This made him feel like he was “gnawing on a leathery rubbery inflatable.” Gray and fellow synesthete, James Wannerton, are among the 4% of the population who possess this rare sensory ability. Wannerton, President of the UK Synaesthesia Association, writes that he experiences “a constant flow of flavors. It’s like a drip, drip, drip from an eyedropper on my tongue, one taste after another, varying in strength and intensity and each overlaying the previous one.”
There are over 60 documented types of synesthesia, including lexical-gustatory synesthesia (words triggering particular tastes), chromesthesia (sounds—like musical notes or voices—evoking visual experiences of colors and shapes), grapheme-color synesthesia (letters and numbers evoking colors), and mirror-touch synesthesia (feeling physical sensations when observing others being touched). In the article, “Why Some People Can Taste Words: The Brainy Phenomenon of Synesthesia,” the authors contend that “[s]ynesthesia reminds us that perception is not a fixed experience—it’s deeply personal, richly layered, and sometimes downright weird (in the best way). For synesthetes, the world is a constant remix of sound, color, shape, and taste.”
I like this idea that the “world is a constant remix of sound, color, shape, and taste.” As a poet, I’ve always been fascinated with the sounds of words, how individual consonants and vowels evoke feeling, and how the rhythms and rhymes created by word combinations move us in the most remarkable ways. I’m not technically a synesthete, but I confess to my “weird (in the best way)” love for certain words that thrill me when I encounter them in print or conversation. Take the word “winsome,” for example, which is so humbly beautiful that I believe it should be spoken with reverence. Or the words “willow,” “twilight,” and “saffron.” If I were a word creator, I would have happily retired upon releasing these words.
Still, the world of synesthesia is not without challenges. You can imagine the potential difficulties that someone with lexical-gustatory synesthesia might experience. What if the object of one’s affection has a name that evokes the taste of overcooked brussel sprouts or rancid butter? Do you persevere in your relationship, working hard to tamp down your gag reflex each time you speak your beloved’s name? Or do you move on to a partner with a different name, one that evokes freshly baked bread, creme brulee, or strawberries (provided you like all these things)? Or consider living with mirror-touch synesthesia and feeling the impact of physical sensations—pleasant and painful—you witness in others. I remember watching in horror as one of my children was just about to topple over the handlebars of her toddler bike. I could see it about to happen and felt something like an electric shock run through my body. I suspect many parents experience something similar. We may not be synesthetes, but we may respond to what we observe in a profoundly painful and physical way.
Considering these challenges, James Wannerton was asked if he would prefer not to have synesthesia. He responded emphatically:
No. It is a fundamental part of how I perceive the world around me, and I couldn’t imagine that world without all the flavors that come with every sound. How could I possibly remember anything without an attached taste? I have met and spoken to hundreds of synesthetes and nearly all of them consider their extra perceptions as a gift rather than a curse, and they just roll with and enjoy the experience.
This is the way of things, I think. Or perhaps, it might better be the way of things: to consider our sensory gifts—whatever they may be—as blessings more than curses. And, for me, this is a splendid way to begin the New Year, turning “perception into a multisensory experience” even if I’m not a synesthete. Just yesterday, when I was walking in the nature preserve, I found a large snail shell right in the middle of the path. How did that get there? I thought. It hadn’t been there yesterday. I stood there for moments before I pocketed it and felt the kind of wonder of a child with a new treasure. When I got home, I placed it in a ceramic dish where I keep my other treasures: a buckeye, a perfectly shaped acorn, and an assortment of shells.
That day was, indeed, a splendid multisensory experience. Moving up the path, I fingered the shell in my pocket, watched an eagle in a cornflower blue sky, and tried out some lines for a new poem I was drafting. As I walked, I spoke: At sixteen, she wore aubergine gloves and spoke only French, her vowels descending through the house in a rose glissade. This was as close to a multisensory experience as I could imagine: bright day, small, unexpected treasure in my pocket, and words that sound as good as they mean. So, Happy New Year to synesthetes and non-synesthetes alike. May our days be “a constant remix of sound, color, shape, and taste.”
P.S. I’m curious if there are words (or names) that evoke a strong sensation—good or bad—for you. If so, kindly comment and give us your words and names!
