GRE Vocabulary: Description

The travel essay was florid, and fancy phrases piled up until the town was hard to picture.

The lab manual was perspicuous, and a new technician could follow each step without asking for help.

The steel door was opaque, and no shape from the lit hall showed on the dark side.

After the night cleaning, the marble lobby looked pristine, with no footprints on the floor.

The winter field looked stark, with nothing but flat snow and one black tree.

The upholstery was sober, a gray that left the paintings as the only strong color.

The stage set was spare, with one chair, a white wall, and nothing else in the light.

The caption was dry, calling a three-hour crossing a quick hop.

The bronze bell was sonorous, and its deep tone rolled across the courtyard.

The photograph of the fern was crisp, and every leaflet edge stayed distinct.

The shallows were pellucid, and each pebble on the bottom showed its color.

The folk tune was limpid, simple enough that the children sang it back after one hearing.

The river was turbid after the storm, and a white stone vanished an inch under the surface.

With the lamp off, the cellar was murky, and the steps faded after the third one.

The curtain was diaphanous, and the streetlamp showed through the cloth.

The ice on the bucket was crystalline, clear as glass, with the water visible beneath.

The coals were lambent, giving a soft glow with no open flame.

The filament was incandescent, a white-hot thread inside the bulb.

The watch face was luminous, easy to read in the dark cabin with no lamp on.

The pearl was lustrous, with a soft shine that shifted as it turned.

Once the porch light went out, the path was obscure, and the stones were hard to see.

The plan on the board was nebulous, a cluster of words with no sequence.

The warm wax was amorphous, and no edge kept the same shape for a minute.

The line of glaze was filamentous, and it broke when the brush paused.

On the ridge the air felt rarefied, and a full breath brought less than it had in the valley.

The chiffon at the window looked ethereal, lifting and almost disappearing in the breeze.

The scarf was gossamer, so light that a person walking past made it rise.

The ridge in the clay was palpable, a raised line under the fingertips.

The crack in the glaze was tangible, and a fingertip stopped at the line.

The difference between the two grays was impalpable, and a finger felt only one smooth surface.

The low organ note was visceral, a vibration in the ribs more than a tune in the ear.

The scratch was superficial, a mark in the varnish that did not reach the wood.

From the rim, the canyon was profound, and the river looked as narrow as a ribbon.

The ridge at sunrise was sublime, and the hikers went quiet at the scale of it.

The carved mask was grotesque, one eye larger than the other and the mouth twisted.

The safety vests were lurid, a harsh orange against the gray dock.

The cloak was incarnadine, a deep red like blood against the gray stone.

The bruise on the shin was violaceous, a blue-purple patch darker than the pale skin around it.

By candlelight the wall looked pallid, a faint yellow instead of its daylight white.

After weeks indoors, his face looked sallow, yellow beneath the eyes.

The moonlight on the snow was wan, too faint to reach the pines.

The apples on the south side of the tree were ruddy, red where the sun had hit them.

Before the storm the sky was ashen, a flat gray with the blue gone.

The makeup note asked for a ghastly face, white enough to read as ill under the lights.

The alley was a cacophony of horns, drills, and a radio, all sounding at once.

The figure in the fog looked spectral, a pale outline with no solid edge.

The tablecloth was checkered, black squares alternating with white.

The quilt was motley, red and blue and brown scraps with no repeated block.

The horse was pied, black patches across a white coat.

The hosta leaves were variegated, green margins around cream centers.

Sunlit spray from the hose looked prismatic, a small arc of colors over the grass.

The banners over the market were kaleidoscopic, colors changing as the cloth turned.

The parade costume was flamboyant, orange and gold sequins cut in flame shapes.

The walls were muted, a dusty blue rather than a pure bright one.

The harbor sky was leaden, one gray sheet from the breakwater to the hills.

The final bow was wooden, the same stiff angle at every curtain call.

The dialogue was stilted, so formal that it sounded read from a page.

The narration was mannered, with every small gesture posed and held.

The paragraph about the teacup was precious, lingering on a hairline crack as if it were treasure.

The catalog was fulsome, calling a plain bowl magnificent, peerless, and unmatched.

The rhyme was facile, easy to say and empty a moment later.

The last line was pat, a moral so tidy that it clicked shut on the story.

The relaxed pose was studied, repeated without change in every sitting.

The caption was pedagogic, naming the bird and the season in one plain teaching sentence.

The closing sentence was sententious, offering a moral as if the reader required judging.

The essay was digressive, leaving the bridge for the river, the toll, and then the weather.

The note was elliptical, giving only "back at dusk" and leaving out the person and the place.

The footpath was circuitous, looping the pond twice before it met the gate.

The road up the cliff was tortuous, one sharp bend after another.

The garden path was serpentine, curving between the hedges in long bends.

From the hill the river looked sinuous, bend following bend across the valley.

The mosaic was Byzantine, with gold tiles and stiff frontal figures in the old eastern manner.

The cellar halls were labyrinthine, and a wrong turn brought the same stairs back into view.

The vine on the post was convoluted, wound around itself three times.

The talk was meandering, sliding from glaciers to the town bakery with no link between them.

The mirror frame was baroque, crowded with carved shells, leaves, and gilt curls.

The ceiling was rococo, pale scrolls and tiny shells packed into the corners.

The chapel windows were gothic, pointed arches filled with stone tracery.

The dorm room was spartan, a bed and a desk against bare walls.

The cell held an ascetic arrangement, a board for a bed and one cup, with nothing chosen for comfort.

The front of the building was chaste, plain stone and a door with no ornament.

The suit was severe, black wool in straight lines and no decoration.

The study was monastic, white walls and one table and no ornament at all.

The shelves were serviceable, plain boards cut to fit the boxes and nothing more.

The lamp was functional, a clip and a bare bulb, with no shade added for show.

The travel piece was purple, heaping adjectives until the lake sounded like a jewel box.

The speech was measured, each phrase followed by a pause of the same length.

Her answers were clipped, four words at most, and then a full stop.

The telegram was terse, six words that still gave the arrival time.

The reply was laconic, stating only that they had arrived and that the walls still held.

The review was pithy, one sentence that still caught the whole play.

The preface was prolix, running twelve pages before the book reached its subject.

The directions were verbose, three paragraphs to describe a single turn.

The melody was pedestrian, pleasant for a moment and gone from memory by the next song.

The log was prosaic, a list of dates and no image that stayed in the mind.

The summary was jejune, bare events and nothing a reader would remember with interest.

The chapter was arid, rows of definitions and no example a reader could picture.

The dedication was turgid, puffing a small gift into a speech about destiny.

The ankle was tumid, so puffed that the shoe would not fasten.

The mustard was pungent, and its sharp smell reached the next table.

The salsa was piquant, a pleasant sharpness that still left the tomato tasting like itself.

Smoke from the pinched candle was acrid, bitter enough to sting the nose.

The green on the poster was acid, harsh and bright against the gray wall.

The lime at the site was corrosive, and the crew rinsed any splash off skin at once.

The rinse was astringent, leaving the mouth tight and slightly puckered.

The lemon rind was tart, sour enough to draw the mouth tight.

The broth was bland, lightly salty and without spice.