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I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose,—words in their best order; poetry,—the best words in their best order.

Samuel Coleridge ~ Table Talk

When tasting a wine and searching for the right words to render one’s impressions, it is tempting to describe it in simple equivalences, expressed either in a simile (“it tastes like gooseberries”), or a metaphor, (“it tastes of gooseberries”). Whilst a wine may – or may not – resemble this particular fruit, these are off-the-peg archetypal descriptions generally used to convey the flavours of such-and-such grape variety or blend. If consolidating the aromas and flavours of a wine into a single fruit barely scratches the surface, then what is wrong with describing an entire basket of them, or flowers, or various herbs, spices and minerals, and any combination thereof? Well, one does not necessarily come up with a better description by throwing more nouns and adjectives at that description. Whereas certain obvious aromatic signatures of a particular wine may instantly remind us of other fruits/flowers etc, deeper associations may also be triggered during tasting that require a more nuanced and considered form of language to capture the essence of the wine.

Rather than using a syntax of precise images, a more impressionistic approach transpires when one leans instead into associative feelings, shapes, and colours.

The best tasting notes are not just a series of random descriptors but may be written in a connective sequence of chronological impressions to demonstrate that the wine is not a mere vessel to be filled to the brim with random similes and metaphors (be they hackneyed or original), rather it is a liquid capable of showing development in itself (which mirrors the graduated way we respond to it). An organic tasting note may be constructed to go through the gears as it were, showing how a single concrete perception can evolve into deeper understanding and aesthetic appreciation.

Tasting notes can be the accretion of detail. If one describes a wine as being like an apple, this can be a wild apple, or a specific breed of apple, it can be the skin of the fruit, or the flesh, or the skin and the flesh, or an apple just picked, or one at a particular stage of ripeness or decay. The more one animates the description by means of sharpening the vocabulary, the more, as in developing a picture, it serves to turn a latent generalised image into a visible and permanent one.

Rather than using a syntax of precise images, a more impressionistic approach transpires when one leans instead into associative feelings, shapes, and colours. Sometimes, the words themselves appear to have little relevance to the wine being tasted at the time. Without structured phrases and sentences to string them together, they float s if in one’s personal mental cloud ready to rain into existence when prompted. After the tasting has finished, in the act of recall and processing, one may begin to shape these fuzzy impressions and half-formed words, by capturing and recreating the spontaneous within the formalising framework of language.

Tasting involves a kind of synaptic muscle memory. If you taste wines frequently, you may be reminded of other similar wines that you have assayed. If you don’t habitually taste wines but have a well-tempered palate you will be reminded of other related things that you have previously tasted. Present experience loops back to memories of tastes from the past. An immediate linguistic family connection is forged, so to speak. The Sauvignon that smells and tastes of gooseberries may smell and taste that way because the chemical composition of the wine gives off those distinctive odours. We can easily access that recognisable aroma memory and convert it into a single word (or companion words).

Tasting and responding doesn’t necessarily use one part of the brain in a predictable way. Certain areas of the brain have stronger neural pathways than others, and our brains often juggle stimuli from one area to another using these pathways.  For example, while the temporal lobe governs your ability to hear music, multiple parts of the brain are operating when you have an emotional reaction to the music, internalize the musical rhythms, and follow the melody. When tasting wine, we are probably using several parts of the brain, creating connections between the different areas to transmit perception into response into language.

We are wired to describe our experiences. Language validates these experiences, renders them communicable, and it helps to validate our selves (without language we would struggle to express our identities and relate to others). In terms of experiencing wine, how we choose to express our perceptions says something about who we are.

I write the feeblest tasting notes (if I write them at all).  I am comfortable with incoherence and uncertainty and have not cultivated much more than a pleasure/indifference reflex when I taste a wine. As a result, I find it difficult to pull forth the right words at the moment to accurately describe what I am tasting. However, months and even years later, I am often able to revisit the moment of tasting the wine, as if opening an oubliette in my mind, dusting off a memory, and finding something that inspires me to write about it. Then to realise the experience as fully as possible, the process switches to finding the best words in their best order.