Some lovers try positions that they can’t handle – I’m referring to the bones of the wrist, of course. The phrase is a classic mnemonic used to remember the eight carpal (wrist) bones – scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate and hamate – whose initials form the memorable sentence.

One of the most curious features of anatomy education is that people often remember mnemonics for decades, long after the rest of their anatomical knowledge has faded. And it’s often the filthiest ones that work best.

These short phrases, rhymes or sentences – used to remember ordered lists of nerves, bones or arteries – have been a staple of anatomy teaching for generations. Some are harmlessly quirky. Others are decidedly less polite. What they share is an unusual staying power.

That persistence is not just a quirk of medical culture. It reveals something important about how learning works.

Anatomy requires understanding and applying the structure of the body. But it begins with something far less glamorous: learning a vast and specialised technical vocabulary. The online database Terminologia Anatomica lists around 7,500 standardised anatomical terms, a figure broadly similar to estimates of the active vocabulary used by fluent speakers in everyday language (often cited at 5,000-10,000 words).

Mnemonics emerged as a practical response to this challenge, helping students organise and retrieve unfamiliar terms while a deeper understanding of anatomical relationships develops. As generations of students have discovered, the more distinctive the phrase, the harder it is to forget.

Why the brain struggles with lists

Much of anatomy involves remembering sequences. The bones of the wrist, the branches of major arteries or the 12 cranial nerves must be recalled in a precise order. The problem is that the brain is not particularly well suited to remembering long lists of unfamiliar terms.

Working memory – the system that allows us to hold information temporarily in mind – has a limited capacity. When faced with a string of technical words, especially ones derived from Latin or Greek, it quickly becomes overloaded.

Mnemonics help solve this problem by converting a list into a structured phrase. Instead of remembering eight separate bones of the wrist, the learner remembers a single sentence whose first letters act as cues for each structure.

Chunking

This strategy is referred to as chunking – grouping several pieces of information into a single meaningful unit. Once the phrase itself has been learned, the brain can use it as a scaffold to reconstruct the original list.

It’s not new either. Renaissance students faced the same challenge of remembering large amounts of anatomical information, and they often relied on mnemonic techniques inherited from the classical ars memoriae, or “art of memory”.

Anatomical knowledge was sometimes taught through didactic Latin verse, making long lists easier to recall in an era when learning was largely oral. One example is the tradition of anatomia versificata, in which anatomical structures were described poetically so they could be memorised. Medical verses attributed to the 12th-13th century French physician Gilles de Corbeil circulated in universities for centuries.

Early printed medical works, such as physician Johannes de Ketham’s Fasciculus Medicinae (1491), also reflected this culture of structured memorisation, pairing text with striking anatomical illustrations to aid recall. Behind these approaches lay classical memory techniques described by writers such as Cicero and Quintilian, who encouraged learners to organise knowledge using vivid imagery and spatial mental maps – an approach that aligns remarkably well with the inherently spatial nature of anatomy itself.

But structure alone does not explain why certain mnemonics, particularly the slightly outrageous ones, tend to stay with us for years.

Why the rudest mnemonics are the most memorable

If mnemonics simply organised lists into manageable chunks, almost any tidy sentence would do. Yet the more outrageous or slightly inappropriate the mnemonic, the more firmly it tends to lodge in memory.

This phenomenon is known as the distinctiveness effect. Information that stands out from its surroundings is more likely to be remembered than material that blends into the background. In a lecture full of unfamiliar Latin terminology, an unexpected or risque phrase becomes instantly distinctive. It interrupts the steady flow of technical language and draws attention to itself.

Attention is the gateway to memory. Information that captures attention is processed more deeply by the brain and is therefore more likely to be stored.

Humour adds another layer. When something makes us laugh, or even causes a moment of mild embarrassment, it activates emotional centres in the brain, including the amygdala, which plays a role in regulating how memories are consolidated. Emotionally marked information is often stored more strongly than neutral material.

There is also a social element. Mnemonics are often shared between students, repeated in revision sessions, and passed down through successive cohorts. The phrases become part of the informal folklore of medical education, remembered not just as words but as part of a shared experience.

Put these elements together – distinctiveness, humour, emotional reaction and social repetition – and it becomes clear why the slightly outrageous mnemonic tends to win out over its more respectable rivals.

Used well, these phrases act as scaffolding: temporary supports that help students organise unfamiliar vocabulary while a deeper three-dimensional understanding of the body gradually develops. In time, they become less necessary.