It also can be a verb for such activities.

It’s a contraction of the earlier terms “fishgig” and “fizgig,” which have a fairly long lineage: the Spanish “fisga,” a type of harpoon, from “fisgar”; the Late Latin “fixicare,” the Latin “fixare,” all the way back to the Latin “fixus,” the past participle of “figere” — “to fasten, attach.”

Interestingly, “jig,” which is where this all started (remember?), also can be a fishing term. A jig is “any of various fishing lured that are jiggled up and down in the water.”

So, fish can be caught with a gig or a jig.

Our final “gig” is another slang version, this time for “an official record or report of a minor delinquency, as in a military school” or “punishment for such a delinquency.”

A solid synonym is “demerit.”

That one probably descended from Scandinavian words, such as the Danish “gig” — “whirling object” or “top” — and the Norwegian dialectical “giga” — “to shake, totter.”

The same Indo-European base, “ghei-,” meaning “to gape,” is also the ultimate origin of “gape” in English, as well as “giggle.”

This “gig” has three specialized definitions in modern English:

“A light, two-wheeled, open carriage drawn by one horse.”

“A long, light ship’s boat, especially one reserved for the commanding officer.”

“A machine for raising nap on cloth” — from the term “gig mill.”

That “nap” is “the downy or hairy surface of cloth,” which sometimes has to be artificially raised by brushing — as with a gig mill.

The sleeping kind of “nap” — my favorite hobby — has the following lineage: from Middle English “nappen” from Old English “hnappian,” akin to Old High German “hnaffezan” — which sort of looks like an attempt to spell a snoring noise.

Whew, I’m pooped. Time to get back to my hobby.

The other “gig” I’m familiar with is the slang one meaning “a job performing music, especially jazz or rock.” The book “American Slang” pegs its first appearance, among jazz musicians, at around 1905.

The meaning has since been generalized to cover “any job.”

But that “gig” is actually the fourth entry in Webster’s, which means it’s a relatively late arrival.

Check in the rest of the week for my takes on the others. Sorry to leave you hanging, but that’s all the time I have for this gig.

Its current definition is “that ends it; all chances for success are gone.”

It’s sometimes written improperly as “The gig is up.” There are actually four separate “gigs” in Webster’s, but none is a good fit for the phrase. (I’ll look at the gig family tomorrow.)

How the word “jig” was chosen for it isn’t exactly clear either. In fact, even its association with dancing is speculative. The dictionary says it probably came from the Middle French “giguer,” meaning “to gambol, dance,” which came from “gigue,” “a fiddle.”

The jig is “a fast, springy sort of dance, usually in triple time.” Its motion also inspired “jigsaw” and “jiggle,” which is what Jell-O does.
I wasn’t sure I could fit that in, but apparently there is always room for Jell-O.

It used to be a noun for “a friendly chat,” an adverb for “at random,” and a verb for “to drink together.” Webster’s gives all three the label “now rare.”

What has survived is “hobnob” as a verb for “to be on close terms (with someone); associate in a familiar way.”

So what does this have to do with Ernest Hemingway? I’m glad you asked.

The origin of the word is the Middle English “habben, ne habben” — literally, “to have and not have.”

Yes, film buffs, we have arrived at 1944 and the Howard Hawks movie “To Have and Have Not,” which paired Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, then 19, for the first time.

The script, which literary giant William Faulkner had a hand in, was loosely based on a book by Hemingway.

Other notables in the film were “Stardust” composer Hoagy Carmichael; three-time Oscar winner Walter Brennan; and character actor Sheldon Leonard, better known as producer of four classic TV series: “The Danny Thomas Show,” “The Andy Griffith Show,” “The Dick Van Dyke Show” and “I Spy.”

Now that would have been a group to hobnob with.

Case in point: Here’s an entry in The Associated Press Stylebook — recur, recurred, recurring. Not “reoccur.”

The problem is, there’s a subtle difference between “reoccur” and “recur.”

I concur with trying to avoid “reoccur.” It simply means “to happen again.” So why not just say “happen again” instead of “reoccur,” which seems inelegant.

However, “recur” is perfect for “to appear at intervals.” In other words, for when something occurs again and again.

That’s how we get the adjective “recurrent” for “intermittent.”

All of them can be traced to the Latin verb “currere,” for “to run,” which is also where “current” comes from.

And you thought it came from electrical devices.

The word comes from the Greek “di-” for “two” and “lemma” for “proposition.” Its original sense, and still its first definition, is “an argument necessitating a choice between equally unfavorable or disagreeable alternatives.”

Its second definition expands its reach beyond arguments to any situation presenting two such options — in other words, “between a rock and a hard place.”

There are many kinds of problems, and many words for them, including the aforementioned “predicament,” “plight,” “quandary,” “pickle” and “fix.

Let’s keep “dilemma” for those no-win situations where there are two choices and both stink. To be “on the horns of a dilemma” is a particularly unpleasant place to be.

One of the first was the metal “copper,” which reportedly was what the uniform buttons of British law officers of the time were made of. Or perhaps it was their badges.

Another was “COP,” the acronym, for “constable on patrol” or “constabulary of police” or even “chief of police.”

Both still have their defenders.

Webster’s New World College Dictionary suggests it came from the “north British dialectical form” of the obsolete “cap,” meaning “to seize.” And it says that probably could be traced back to the Latin verb “capere,” for “to take.”

But according to “Webster’s New Explorer Dictionary of Word Origins,” the case has been solved — and the culprit is an English verb “cop,” not “cap,” that appeared around 1700. It was slang for “to catch, capture,” and by 1844 it had appeared in print “to refer to what police do to criminals.”

Just two years later, “copper” appeared in print for “policeman” — “one who cops or catches or arrests criminals.”

In 1859, the noun “copper” was shortened to “cop.”

Would that case hold up in court? You be the judge.

“Be careful in the use of this colloquial term for ‘police officer.’ It may be used in lighter stories and in casual, informal descriptions, but often is a derogatory term out of place in serious police stories.”

In other words, it’s a judgment call — unless we choose to never use it, except in quoted material. I think that might be carrying sensitivity to an extreme, but there’s no shortage of sensitivity issues swirling around this case already.

We could have avoided the whole thing by substituting “local police” for “Rockford cops.” Yes, it would have been a bit shorter, but a lot safer.

Interestingly, John B. Bremner had this to say in “Words on Words”:

“As a noun, ‘cop’ is gaining respectability as a synonym for ‘policeman’ and does not seem to be resented by policemen. It is certainly more respectable than the barnyard word the crazies scream.”

That was back in 1980, and the barnyard word was, of course, “pigs.”

Notice, too, that Bremner used “policeman” and “policemen,” both of which would draw complaints today because of the gender component.

So word sensitivity is on the rise on more than one front — in case you hadn’t noticed.

The verb “censure” means “to express strong disapproval of,” while “censor” takes disapproval to another level by restricting or actually prohibiting the use of something.

As nouns, a “censure” is a condemnation, formal or otherwise, and a “censor” is a person in charge of limiting or shutting off access to information.

Both can be traced to the Latin verb “censere” for “to tax, value, judge.”

In ancient Rome, a “censor” was a magistrate in charge of taking the census and, later, overseeing public morals.

Also in this mix are “censer,” “an ornamented container in which incense is burned,” and “sensor,” a general term applied to various kinds of devices that detect, measure, record, transmit, etc.

Three of them are homonyms; only “censure” is pronounced differently, with a “sh” sound in the middle.

“Censure” is sort of a slap on the wrist for someone who has behaved badly. “Censorship” is generally an affront to all.