The Syllable Scramble: Deciphering the Linguistic Maze of Modern Medicine
It has been a few weeks since the medical community announced two pivotal breakthroughs in the ongoing battle against Covid-19. Yet, since that initial flurry of headlines, they have largely vanished from the airwaves. As someone who has spent a decade navigating the fast-paced world of broadcast news, I have a working theory as to why: the names are an absolute nightmare to pronounce.
I’ve watched seasoned colleagues stumble, and while the Prime Minister took a fair bit of flack for fumbling the announcement, I find it hard to hold a grudge this time. Even with a deliberate “run-up” and a focused breath, words like tocilizumab and sarilumab remain stubbornly resistant to the human tongue and nearly impossible to lodge in one’s long-term memory.
For years, I’ve questioned the origin of these linguistic puzzles. It is difficult enough—particularly for the elderly—to manage a complex regimen of dosages and timings without the added burden of names that sound like random collections of Scrabble tiles. Personally, I’ve been treating my reflux for a lifetime, yet I still find myself pausing to wonder: is it opremazole or omeprazole?
The Method in the Madness
To find the logic behind the lexicon, I reached out to Dr. Penny Ward, a visiting professor in pharmaceutical medicine at King’s College London. As it turns out, there is a strict global architecture to this madness. Every drug requires a unique, non-proprietary name that is instantly recognizable and functional across every language on the planet.
The secret lies in the “stem.” In the case of the new Covid treatments, that stem is -mab, which serves as shorthand for monoclonal antibody (a stellar bit of trivia for your next pub quiz). While the suffix is dictated by science, the prefix allows pharmaceutical researchers a rare opportunity for creative flair.
Dr. Ward pointed to one of her personal favorites: bimekizumab. The name is a clever nod to the fact that the antibody inhibits two specific proteins. However, it also suggests a bit of industry mischief; if you say it quickly, it sounds suspiciously like “Buy me kizumab.” It appears the pharmaceutical world isn’t entirely devoid of a sense of humor.
I was so charmed by the name that I jokingly told Dr. Ward I wished I had whatever ailment required a bimekizumab prescription. Her response was immediate and sobering: “Trust me, you don’t.”
The Branding Pivot
Of course, these tongue-twisters are merely the “non-proprietary” names. Once the branding experts get their hands on a compound, the marketing alchemy begins. It’s easy to see why. In a moment of romantic tension, no one wants to pause the mood to ask for their sildenafil.
Viagra, on the other hand, has a certain ring to it that the laboratory name simply can’t match. Whether it’s for the sake of the tongue or the bottom line, the transition from science to the medicine cabinet clearly requires a very specific kind of translation.
