What is another word for tom?

Pronunciation: [tˈɒm] (IPA)

Tom is a versatile name that can connote different meanings based on the context. Synonyms for Tom can describe distinct aspects of the name which can be found in regional colloquialisms, idiomatic expressions, and slangs. The name Tom can refer to a male cat or a turkey, which is also known as a Tom Turkey. Tom can also be used to refer to a nickname for Thomas, which in turn has its own slang including 'Tommy', 'Tom Tom', and 'Tommy boy'. Other synonyms for Tom include 'Tomas', 'Tommaso', and 'Tomislav', which are foreign variations of the name that have been derived from different languages.

Synonyms for Tom:

What are the paraphrases for Tom?

Paraphrases are restatements of text or speech using different words and phrasing to convey the same meaning.
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What are the hypernyms for Tom?

A hypernym is a word with a broad meaning that encompasses more specific words called hyponyms.
  • hypernyms for tom (as nouns)

What are the hyponyms for Tom?

Hyponyms are more specific words categorized under a broader term, known as a hypernym.

Usage examples for Tom

And tom did, too.
"The Mermaid of Druid Lake and Other Stories"
Charles Weathers Bump
tom will drive me from the door and never see me again.
"The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II)"
Charles James Lever
The difficulty came with tom.
"The Locusts' Years"
Mary Helen Fee

Famous quotes with Tom

  • Relying on the government to protect your privacy is like asking a peeping tom to install your window blinds.
    John Perry Barlow
  • Go on thinking that you don't need to be read and you'll find that it may become quite true: no one will feel the need tom read it because it is written for yourself alone; and the public won't feel any impulse to gate crash such a private party.
    Dylan Thomas
  • That sovereign of insufferables, Oscar Wilde has ensued with his opulence of twaddle and his penury of sense. He has mounted his hind legs and blown crass vapidities through the bowel of his neck, to the capital edification of circumjacent fools and foolesses, fooling with their foolers. He has tossed off the top of his head and uttered himself in copious overflows of ghastly bosh. The ineffable dunce has nothing to say and says it—says it with a liberal embellishment of bad delivery, embroidering it with reasonless vulgarities of attitude, gesture and attire. There never was an impostor so hateful, a blockhead so stupid, a crank so variously and offensively daft. Therefore is the she fool enamored of the feel of his tongue in her ear to tickle her understanding. The limpid and spiritless vacuity of this intellectual jellyfish is in ludicrous contrast with the rude but robust mental activities that he came to quicken and inspire. Not only has he no thoughts, but no thinker. His lecture is mere verbal ditch-water—meaningless, trite and without coherence. It lacks even the nastiness that exalts and refines his verse. Moreover, it is obviously his own; he had not even the energy and independence to steal it. And so, with a knowledge that would equip and idiot to dispute with a cast-iron dog, and eloquence to qualify him for the duties of a caller on a hog-ranch, and an imagination adequate to the conception of a tom-cat, when fired by contemplation of a fiddle-string, this consummate and star-like youth, missing everywhere his heaven-appointed functions and offices, wanders about, posing as a statue of himself, and, like the sun-smitten image of Memnon, emitting meaningless murmurs in the blaze of women’s eyes. He makes me tired. And this gawky gowk has the divine effrontery to link his name with those of Swinburne, Rossetti and Morris—this dunghill he-hen would fly with eagles. He dares to set his tongue to the honored name of Keats. He is the leader, quoth’a, of a renaissance in art, this man who cannot draw—of a revival of letters, this man who cannot write! This little and looniest of a brotherhood of simpletons, whom the wicked wits of London, haling him dazed from his obscurity, have crowned and crucified as King of the Cranks, has accepted the distinction in stupid good faith and our foolish people take him at his word. Mr. Wilde is pinnacled upon a dazzling eminence but the earth still trembles to the dull thunder of the kicks that set him up.
    Oscar Wilde
  • The fact that we have not yet found the slightest evidence for life — much less intelligence — beyond this Earth does not surprise or disappoint me in the least. Our technology must still be laughably primitive, we may be like jungle savages listening for the throbbing of tom-toms while the ether around them carries more words per second than they could utter in a lifetime.
    Arthur C. Clarke

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