Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
A bug hit me in the face.
Then another one, and another one.
They were in a caravan.
I had forgotten: when I first met K., for a drink, it was my birthday.
Along Summit, a brick wall, two or three feet, separating sidewalk from yard, with an eminently sittable concrete top surface, on which are placed two lavender signs written in chalk and kept in place with stone paperweights: 'DO NOT SIT ON THIS WALL'.
(Obviously an interpolation by a frustrated rhapsode.)
'Nine days of drifting followed; but in the night of the tenth the gods washed me up on the island of Ogygia, the home of Calypso of the braided tresses, that formidable goddess with a woman's voice; and she received me kindly and looked after me. But why go again through all this? Only yesterday I told you and your noble wife the whole story here in your home, and it is tedious for me to repeat a tale already plainly told.'