If the word doesn’t exist, invent it; but first be sure it doesn’t exist.
“Fairer than Enna’s field when Ceres sows
The stars of hyacinth and puts off grief,
Fairer than petals on May morning blown
Through apple-orchards where the sun hath shed
His brighter petals down to make them fair;
Fairer than these the Poppy-crowned One flees,
And Joy goes weeping in her scarlet train.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: The Yearly Slain”