“Composites” (in this context at least): Two words, identical in meaning, that bond together to become an entirely new word.
I’m a counselor at Camp Ogama, taking care of six year-old boys. One morning, during “Clean-up”, a camper comes up and says he’d like me to take him to the Health Center. He wants to see the doctor. I say, “What’s the problem?” He says he’ll only tell the doctor.
I take him to the doctor. Doctor Diesenhouse. Red-haired, smart and kind. The kid insists I remain outside, then shuffles, alone, into the Examining Room.
A few minutes later, the camper cheerfully emerges. “He gave me a pill,” he reports. “I feel better.”
The kid returns to the cabin, I hang back to confer with the doctor. “He’s fine,” Dr. Diesenhouse assures me. “What was wrong?” I inquire. The doctor says the boy was too shy to say it out loud, so he told him to come up and whisper it.
The doctor then repeated the words the camper had nervously whispered in his ear.
“My weenis hurts.”
An entirely new word.