#003 - Name 'Em!

Today’s hot tip is about scientific names for plants.

But before we begin - you'll often see them called Latin names, but I prefer the term botanical or scientific names because not all plant names are truly "Latin"—they are "Latinized." For example, the scientific name Akebia is a Latinization of the Japanese name for the species Akebia quinata—akebi (通草).

One more note: this tip is a continuation of an article Mark Rios and I wrote in 2020 for the Beverly Hills Courier: Plant Names Are Long but Full of Spirit

Somewhere along the way, botanical names started scaring new designers. Too long. Too fussy. Too formal. Too intimidating. We hear names like Eschscholzia californica or Zantedeschia aethiopica, and our shoulders tense. You probably worry, "How the heck am I going to say that? It’s so much easier to say 'poppy' or 'calla lily.'" So we pretend we do not see the botanical names.

But here is the truth: scientific names are not the enemy. They are the key to unlocking the full story of a plant: where it comes from, what it does, and sometimes who risked their life to collect it. They are not just names. They are descriptors, honorifics, riddles, even jokes. Learn to read them, and suddenly your landscape becomes a library of plant stories.

Plant names themselves are often clues. Repens means creeping. Glauca means blue-gray. Magnifica, you can guess. (Next week, we will send you a full list of these useful root words.) Sometimes the name tells you about the plant’s behavior. Sometimes it honors the botanist who first described it. Sometimes it carries a hidden story, like Bougainvillea, named after a French admiral, but once you dive into the history of the plant, you'll find that it was actually discovered by Jeanne Baret, a woman who disguised herself as a man to join the Bougainville expedition.

Or take Heteromeles arbutifolia. Better known as Toyon, or California Holly. That scientific name tells us about the plant. Its genus means "different apple": hetero (different), malus (apple), and if you look at the fruit, you will see it resembles a tiny apple. The species name means "leaves like an arbutus": arbuti (arbutus) and folia (leaves). If you know what an Arbutus tree looks like, the connection becomes clear. Once you have learned that name, you are not just looking at a pretty shrub, you are seeing it as botanists saw it.

Scientific names do more than distinguish species. They prevent disasters on the job site. When someone says “Laurel,” do they mean Laurus nobilis, the culinary bay? Umbellularia californica, the California native? Or Nerium oleander, which is poisonous? Even further, common names vary from language to language. The scientific name stays the same no matter where you are. The common name leads you into the woods. The botanical name gets you back out.

And if you are worried about saying it wrong, let that go. Latin is a dead language. No one is going to critique you, and if they do, they are just plain rude. Pronounce it however you like but say it with confidence. The point is not to sound smart. It is to speak with precision. To learn a plant’s full name is to acknowledge it as more than just a symbol in your planting plan. It is an act of respect.

If you find botanical names too complicated, consider this: Catnip (Nepeta cataria) was once called Nepeta floribus interrupte spicatus pedunculatis: "Nepeta with flowers in an interrupted pedunculated spike." Fortunately, in 1753, Carl Linnaeus realized these descriptive names were far too long to memorize. He created the system of binomial nomenclature, where two words are used to concisely describe a living organism.

When Linnaeus formalized the binomial system, he gave us more than a method, he gave us a mindset. Every plant gets two names. The first is the genus or generic epithet, which groups related plants. The second is the species or specific epithet, which distinguishes the individual plant. The genus is always capitalized, the species is not. This was a radical idea at the time. It showed that the tulip in your front yard had something in common with a tulip in the mountains of Central Asia. Naming was not just categorizing, it was connecting. (You can learn even more by getting into plant families - you will find that Agave and Asparagus are in the same family, and next time you see an Agave flower spike you'll realize it looks just like a giant asparagus)

We should not shy away from these names. We should treat them like invitations. Every time you learn the meaning of a botanical name, you build a deeper relationship with the plant. You start to see not just a planting palette, but a cast of characters. You start to tell better stories about your work.

So next time you are reading your plant schedule and stumble over Syzygium symingtonianum or Metasequoia glyptostroboides, do not apologize. Just say the name out loud. Say it twice. Let it settle. You will feel it taking root and you will feel your internal plant library growing.