There is a Fine Line Between a Party and a Riot

Most of my words sit like sugar-free mints at the tip of my tongue. 

Now I encounter athletic words. They push off my restraining grip and climb nimbly to
      the high board, vaulting, twisting, hurtling through space in showers of sparks.
I lurk below, flat-footed. Tame words—cat, chair—wait politely with me on flash cards
      stapled to construction-paper-covered corkboards.
(Overhead projectors may be called into play.)
Off the high board comes tintinnabulation! Onomatopoeia!
Can I corral their exuberance?
My thought balloon lights up. The divers are soloists: I’ll provide the orchestra.
I whistle for my fluffy-coated sheepdog. “Move the soloists over there with smorgasbord
       and tarantula. I’ll group some string players by the snack bar: shimmer, zing,
       ululate…” 

But the soloists won’t group.
“Erudition,” I holler, “Phantasmagoria, c’mere—y’all’ll get your names in bold in the program!”
Sassafras flips me the bird and crashes his Ducati into the cabana.
Calla lily strips off her bikini and leaps into the pool.
Now they’re pulling chaise lounges in after ’em—and, no, not my overhead projector!
Alert the word police! The fish is off the hook! The words have run berserk.