How a Medieval Gambling Game Gave Us the Word "Pool" (And What That Means for Writers)

Dada

I jump to my feet.

“Darian!” I yell for my wife. “He did it. He said it.”

I run out of the room in excitement. I run back into the room and scoop up my son. I run out of the room again, his little body bobbing with each bounding step down the hall.

“He said it!”

Words are wild things. They change lives. They become flesh (John 1:14). They make new dads giddy. And they carry stories — layered, tangled, full of history.

Take pool, for example.

Gambling was a simple business in medieval France. All you needed was a pot, a chicken, and a few friends to make it happen. The friends were optional. Could be enemies. Could be strangers. But the pot and the chicken were essential.

First, everyone tossed an equal amount of money into the pot. Then, someone shooed the chicken a “reasonable” distance away. What’s a reasonable chicken-shooing distance?

About a stone’s throw.

Next, you’d pick up a stone.

(Skip the next part if you’re an animal rights campaigner.)

One by one, you’d take turns hurling rocks at the poor bird. It would squawk and flap, trying to escape its fate — honestly, not too different from the poor birds in my backyard when my kids are outside.

The first person to land a hit won the whole pot.

That’s how the French played a game of chicken. Literally. They called it poule (French for “chicken” — which my wife, who reminds me often that she took French in high school, will be delighted I mentioned). The winner of the money was said to have won the jeu de poule.

The term spread.

At card tables, the pot of money became known as poule. English gamblers, ever the souvenir collectors, brought the term home in the 1600s. Naturally, they adjusted the spelling — because that’s what English speakers do — and turned poule into pool.

Fast-forward to a smoky room where a few folks had sticks, balls, and a flat surface. They invented a game: billiards. And because people love gambling, they started betting on it. That version became known as pool. Hence, shooting pool.

From there, the word took on a life of its own. Gamblers pooled their money. People started pooling resources. Then they pooled their cars into carpools. Offices gathered typists into typing pools.

And just like that, pool had evolved.

Language is like that. It wriggles through history, shifts under pressure, and takes detours that don’t always make sense.

Most people don’t think twice about the words they use.

But you’re not most people.

You’re subscribed to a storytelling newsletter. You care about words — not just where they came from, but how they’re used, how they shape stories, how they carry meaning and emotion.

So here’s my encouragement to you: Get curious about words. Chase them down their rabbit trails. Follow their history. Watch how they shift and stretch.

Because words aren’t just words.

They’re the raw material of your craft.

And every time you sit down to write, you’re not just stringing words together.

You’re shaping something that — like poule to pool — might take on a life of its own.

Write on 🤙

Payton ”chicken-shooing” Minzenmayer

~

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