Are the words of English efflorescences or confections? Often enough, they are at least a bit of both. Consider wymote. It looks as though it could be an uncommon surname, or a speck (mote) joined to a small dragon (wyvern). It sounds like a semi-articulate protest from someone unable to approach a castle. What it really is is something more of a treat for the eyes and tongue.
It’s not often used, obviously. But the word it grew from is even less used today: wymalve. That word in turn seems to trace back to a conjecture Latin viscomalva, which would have come from hibiscomalva, formed in its turn from hibiscus (from Greek ἱβίσκος hibiskos) and malva (from Greek μαλάχη malakhé). It names a flowering plant, common enough in Europe, Althæa officinalis, of the family Malvaceæ. The Althæa comes from Greek ἄλθειν althein, verb, ‘heal’. And indeed it has long been used for medicinal purposes. Its roots (the plant’s, not the word’s) are quite comestible when cooked; they are fibrous, and can be used in halvah or processed into something more gelatinous. The French added egg white and sugar to this and produced a soft dessert item, which they named after the plant.
Oh, did I not mention the French name? It was formed from viscomalva and was in turn the source of wymalve. Its modern form is guimauve. If you have ever sat around a Canadian campfire, you have likely seen that word on some packaging, next to the English. The English name comes from the common name for Althæa officinalis: it is a kind of malva that sometimes grows in or near marshes; malva has become mallow over the centuries; put that together and you have marshmallow.
Just to add to the fun, there is no Althæa officinalis in the modern marshmallows (guimauves). Gelatin, sugar, water, maybe flavouring. Probably not even egg white. We have taken the name (the French have too) and walked away with it. And if you see the plant – which has pretty flowers but nothing on it resembling the food (cattails are closer in appearance) – you may or may not want to use the name with the confectionary overtones. If you’d rather give the plant a distinctive name, try wymote, which has, like the marshmallows you toast over an open fire (or in the flames of a small dragon), very little left in common with its origin – partly through natural efflorescence and perhaps partly through deliberate confection – and yet is quite palatable.