Imago, Imagas, Imagat.
"Pay attention, Simpleforth!"
Raps ruler on desk.
"Simpleforth, are you bored?"
"Do you by any chance not like Latin, Simpleforth?"
"Oh yessir. Amo molto Latino, Magister."
"But I thought I saw you yawning just now, Simpleforth. As if construing two hundred or so words of sensible Latin was, how shall we say, beyond your wit? Do not the forthcoming examinations generate an atmosphere of foreboding? Even fear?"
"Has the wretch actually gone to sleep?"
"No sir. I'm thinking."
"You mean, Simpleforth, that within the putrefying mess that passes for your brain, there is discernible activity? And what will emerge as a result? What terrifying creature will this pupil's pupa produce? Marcus Tullius in tablino sedet? Omnes Gallia in tres partes divisa est? Or are you hoping that if Latin finally begins to appear it will be at the same moment that the bell announces end of lesson and Hooray it's Morning Break?"
"Not so fast, Simpleforth. Instead of hoofing off for a ciggie behind the bike sheds, you will stay here and write a two hundred word imposition to explain the Latin or Greek roots of the words imago, lacuna, miasma, oscitate, and synchronicity."
"Ohh . . . SIR!"
(Hint to the beleagured schoolboy . . all the given words are implied in the story, but in Simpleforth Standard English)
(200 words, not including the title and footnotes. Posted in response to Rachel Harrie's Second Campaigner Challenge)