What is another word for clump?

Pronunciation: [klˈʌmp] (IPA)

The word "clump" refers to a group of things or people that are tightly clustered together. There are several other words that can be used as synonyms for "clump" such as: bunch, cluster, grouping, assemblage, huddle, heap and crowd among others. Each of these words has slightly different connotations, but all convey the idea of a group of things or people that are closely grouped together. For example, "bunch" often implies a collection of similar things or the same item gathered together, while "huddle" implies a group of people gathered closely together in a tight formation. Whatever the word used, the general idea is that there is a closeness and tightness to the collection of things or people.

Synonyms for Clump:

What are the paraphrases for Clump?

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What are the hypernyms for Clump?

A hypernym is a word with a broad meaning that encompasses more specific words called hyponyms.

What are the opposite words for clump?

Clump is a word that means a cluster or a group of things that are tightly packed together. The antonyms for the word 'clump' are words that describe things that are spread out and not grouped together. Words like 'scatter', 'disperse', 'distribute' and 'separate' are all antonyms of clump. Scatter refers to things that are spread out in different directions. Disperse means to scatter things so that they are no longer close together. To distribute is to spread things out evenly. To separate is to move away from each other or pull things apart. Using antonyms like these can help create a more diverse and nuanced vocabulary.

What are the antonyms for Clump?

Usage examples for Clump

He kept gaining on Mart, and seeing this, the lad ran toward a clump of bushes.
"Leo the Circus Boy"
Ralph Bonehill
At the same moment Kali approached and, pointing his hand at a clump of trees, said: Great master!
"In Desert and Wilderness"
Henryk Sienkiewicz
There a clump of pandan bushes made a shelter against the wind, which, as if satisfied with the havoc it had wrought, ceased for fully five minutes.
"The Locusts' Years"
Mary Helen Fee

Famous quotes with Clump

  • His speech is clumsy, with a toadlike indolence, long winded, pedantic, choppy. The words tumble from his mouth in sentence fragments, which he holds back as much as possible, as if they were earning interest. It takes forever and a day for him to push out a clump of hardened brain snot. Then he writhes in painful ecstasy, as if he had sugar on his rotten teeth. A very slow blab machine. An obsolete model with a non-working switch — it can't be turned off unless you cut off the electric power altogether. So I'd have to smash him in the kisser. No, I'd have to knock him unconscious. But even if he were unconscious he'd keep talking. Even if his vocal cords were sliced through, he'd keep talking like a ventriloquist. Even if his throat were cut and his head were chopped off, speech balloons would still dangle from his mouth like gases emitted by internal decay.
    Werner Herzog
  • As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cart-wheel, pale silver and streaked with rose colour, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there.
    Willa Cather
  • My dog lay dead five days without a grave In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine And a jungle of grass and honey-suckle vine.
    Richard Wilbur
  • In the east the moon was rising, a full moon that lighted the landscape so that he could see every little clump of bushes, every grove of trees. And as he stood there, he realized with a sudden start that the moon was full again, that it was always full, it rose with the setting of the sun and set just before the sun came up, and it was always a great pumpkin of a moon, an eternal harvest moon shining on an eternal autumn world. The realization that this was so all at once seemed shocking. How was it that he had never noticed this before? Certainly he had been here long enough, had watched the moon often enough to have noticed it. He had been here long enough — and how long had that been, a few weeks, a few months, a year? He found he did not know. He tried to figure back and there was no way to figure back. There were no temporal landmarks. Nothing ever happened to mark one day from the next. Time flowed so smoothly and so uneventfully that it might as well stand still.
    Clifford D. Simak
  • At this point in the dreadful story I am writing, I must interrupt for a moment and describe something that happened to a good friend of mine named Mr. Sirin. Mr. Sirin was a lepidoptrerist, a word which usually means "a person who studies butterflies." In this case, however, the word "lepidopterist" means "a man who was being pursued by angry government officials," and on the night I am telling you about they were right on his heels. Mr. Sirin looked back to see how close they were--four officers in their bright-pink uniforms, with small flashlights in their left hands and large nets in their right--and realized that in a moment they would catch up, and arrest him and his six favorite butterflies, which were frantically flapping alongside him. Mr. Sirin did not care much if he was captured--he had been in prison four and a half times over the course of his long and complicated life--but he cared very much about the butterflies. He realized that these six delicate insects would undoubtedly perish in bug prison, where poisonous spiders, stinging bees, and other criminals would rip them to shreds. So, as the secret police closed in, Mr. Sirin opened his mouth as wide as he could and swallowed all six butterflies whole, quickly placing them in the dark but safe confines of his empty stomach. It was not a pleasant feeling to have these six insects living inside him, but Mr. Sirin kept them there for three years, eating only the lightest foods served in prison so as not to crush the insects with a clump of broccoli or a baked potato. When his prison sentence was over, Mr. Sirin burped up the grateful butterflies and resumed his lepidoptery work in a community that was much more friendly to scientists and their specimens.
    Daniel Handler

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