whatchamacallit


Also found in: Dictionary, Thesaurus, Financial, Wikipedia.

whatchamacallit

(ˈʍətʃəməˈkɑlɪt)
n. a name for a person or thing whose real name has been forgotten or is being avoided. I lost my—you know—my whatchamacallit—my watch!
References in periodicals archive ?
And, by our reckoning, 10 of the top 12 largest whatchamacallit manufacturers have the word "spa" as a part of their names.
In addition, Triple K does not follow the current trend of painting a widget black, naming it The Homeland Defense Extreme Tactical Whatchamacallit and selling it for 600 percent over what it really should cost.
Make up a name, say "Brian," who will be a fictional boy your friend danced with two summers ago at Camp Whatchamacallit.
Because I'd tied the whatchamacallit to the antenna.
Not another 600- word whatchamacallit on that thingamajig called iPhone 4.
If winter wants to cut in front of the trick-or-treaters, we have to shovel the whatchamacallit from the walks and brush the snowcaps from the jack-o'-lanterns - and try to snicker and chuckle as we do.
That such an innocuous - almost comic - pocket whatchamacallit could inspire lofty testimonials and, at the same time, disgorge a woolly bugger from the maw of a Dolly Varden trout or handle the field extraction of a cork from a bottle of Barolo, speaks highly of the Swiss Army's procurement savvy.
Sending children out the day after one of their most-anticipated nights of the year would seem to smack more of Whatchamacallit than Halloween.
On the cover of ``Semi Crazy,'' (Curb) Junior Brown sure does look goofy leaning against an 18-wheeler, holding that twin-necked whatchamacallit.
Jammed in tight were the accoutrements of this two-year-old - appliances, contraptions, doodads, doohickeys, paraphernalia and colourful provisions, to set up and supply her with the essential tackle, thingamajigs, and whatchamacallits that her little heart is fixed upon.
Here's to this plumb crazy blur of happenin's an' whatchamacallits we call life, even when it deals us out a shitty old hand like this.
It was a hot summer afternoon in Brooklyn, circa 1965, and my mother and I had just been to the hardware store, Doody's, which never failed to charm me both with its variety of products--everything from lumber and appliances, to hinges, tools, small metal whatchamacallits that seemed to have some astonishingly esoteric uses--and of course for its excremental name.