Struck last week by the repeated use of the word “indefensible” in an argument I overheard, I started thinking in detail about the kinds of language people use when the chips are down.

Which words help one’s case? Which ones hinder? How defended should you be when defending yourself? How can we argue with resilience and good humour, criticise without condemning, stick up for ourselves without betraying the inner vulnerability that perceived the slight in the first place? For to feel slighted or hurt immediately puts one on a lower footing in life, and there is balance to be regained as soon as possible or all may be lost. Can one argue deftly and with style and still get one’s point across, or not?

The word indefensible was so remarkable because it adopted, claimed and even annexed the higher ground. “You have not let me down or hurt me,” it seemed to suggest, “you have done something that not a single human person could condone.” In short: your bad behaviour is a factual reality. It was universal, age-old standards of behaviour that were being invoked, rules and laws where there is no margin for interpretation or differences of opinion. Calling someone’s actions indefensible suggests conduct that is wholly transgressive, yet it is an oddly impersonal word. It doesn’t seek to insult or inflame or hurt, exactly. It doesn’t sting the heart. It’s too abstract. No one, in age, would flop wearily on to an aubergine sateen sofa under a misted window in the half-light, reminiscing with bittersweetness: “It was the day that she said my ways were indefensible that I knew all was lost.”

Of course the “indefensible” lady’s high moral tone was somewhat compromised by her screeching voice, but the message was still reasonably clear (if a little too loud). Nobody’s perfect.

I remember being told as a child that very selfish or hurtful behaviour from another was usually the result of a failure of imagination. The person couldn’t, or wouldn’t, put themselves in my shoes, and so had no idea how I might feel. It was practically an artistic fault, like relying too much on the yellow ochre when painting your flesh tones, or monopolising the loud pedal during a sonata.

So, I adopted for a spell, the word “unimaginative” in my bouts of criticism. One feels much more resilient, dashing almost, accusing people of being unimaginative rather than of being hurtful or selfish or mean. It is as though you’re suddenly a committee member at the Venice Biennale looking at a fellow’s body of work and thinking (with compassion, of course) that it doesn’t quite add up. The concepts and the execution are not quite there; there may be the potential for potential, but come back in two years’ time perhaps? To call a person “unimaginative” makes one feel far more jaunty than parading one’s hurt feelings, or decrying the fact one’s emotions have been disregarded, which might sound petty or childish or – horrors! – indicate a low morale.

“Unimpressive” is another useful, yet curiously unemotional, word. Say to a struggling fellow, “I am not impressed that you are 40 minutes late for the theatre” and you don’t seem exacting or vulnerable in your own feelings, you’ve merely noticed the other person’s behaviour and found it wanting. It doesn’t measure up. Being unimpressed feels so much more powerful than, well, minding.

Then, “Helga, that is so inappropriate!” I heard a mother tell her 18-month-old daughter, who was fishing small coloured plates of sushi from a figure eight conveyor belt and flinging them at her new baby sister, who lay sleeping in an orange pram. Still, I’m not a fan of the word “inappropriate”. A world where all behaviour is appropriate frightens me. On the other hand, I have once or twice used the word “inelegant” to further my cause.

“It was so inelegant when your ex-wife smirked as she referred chummily to that winter you spent together in Vancouver” might be quite an enjoyable thing to say to one’s current husband. To accuse another of inelegance is a mild charge but a very satisfying one. It was an error of style, you point out; didn’t bother me in the least, of course, but you know, the whole thing didn’t exactly look right.

Why I should be fantasising about putting people in their place when all is well with me, I do not know. Perhaps it’s escapism, or perhaps I’m afraid contentment has dulled my wits. Now, that really would be indefensible.

susie.boyt@ft.com
More columns at www.ft.com/boyt