marquise — MARQUEE

[mahr-KEEZ] (n. f.) The pop star is upset and pouting in her dressing room. Stuff was broken and her entourage's gotten an earful. It all started when she got to the venue and her name on the marquee was next to the opening act's, not on top of it. This is one pop star who wants to be treated like a monarch and it's fitting in a way: see, the term marquee was gleaned from the French marquise, a noblewoman. It all goes back to the 17th century when an officer's tent in a French military encampment was distinguished by having a linen canopy placed over it, indicating a place suitable for a marquis. They called that canopy a marquise. Come the early 1900s when Americans wanted to name those fancy canopies in front of a hotel, or theater. They grabbed the French marquise, mistakenly thought the s at the end made it plural, lobbed that off, and called it a marquee.

moufle — MITTEN

[MOO-fleh] (n. f.) To muffle a kitchen fire the housewife throws a towel on it, smothering it. To muffle a scream the murderer puts pillow on his victim's head. To muffle is to wrap something to conceal or protect. Its French origin is the moufle, an item of winter clothing meant to conceal or protect only the hands: a mitten. Okay but where does that leave us with mitten which doesn't resemble moufle? The word was borrowed phonetically from the French mitaine (pronounced exactly the same way) but with some confusion: that's the word for fingerless glove. Go figure.

morceau — MORSEL

[mohr-SO] (n. m.) A strange case of shifting spellings, or not in English's case. Going way back, the Latin morsellum means "a small piece" and is made up of morsum (piece) and the diminutive -ellus. To get horribly specific about what kind of piece this is, it's good to know the word is derived from mordeo, or "to bite." Right away, the French had the good sense to ablate the word from morsellum to morsel, which is where the English left things.

During the Middle Ages, the French went through a period of systematically (that is, with a semblance of consistency) altering the spelling of Latin words they borrowed. One of these so-called Latin rules as they are called in Auguste Brachet's 1868 Dictionnaire Etymologique is that the s before a vowel often became a c. Hence, the Latin salsa became sauce and morsel begat morcel. Another Latin rule was that long vowel sounds should be shortened and the natural way of doing so was to slide down the vowel ladder which, both phonetically and alphabetically, goes  a, e, i, o, u. (Brachet even points out that a starts at the base of the larynx while u expires on the lips, a natural order.) So the -el sounds often become an o sound and agnellus became agneau (lamb) and morcel became morceau. 

ménage — HOUSEHOLD

[MEH-naa-je] (n. m.) Let's face it: French people have gained a reputation as oversexed, kiss-happy Casanovas with multiple affairs in the oven. It's natural then that ménage-à-trois is among the first French phrases Americans encounter. Right, we're talking kinky so let's use a French expression! Makes sense. In this sexed-up sense, the phrase means threesome. More chastly, it means household-of-three. It makes the distinction between a normal Christian house with a man and a woman and one with a third adult whose intention are impure.

mur — WALL

[MEW-r] (n. m.) Nobody compliments a wall. It's gotta be the most depressed feature of a building. People comment on the great the view out a window (a hole in the wall). Someone admires a piece of art or taxidermy boar head hung on a wall. They'll even appreciate the crown moulding at the top of a wall. But, the wall itself nets little notice. Now, paint a mural on a wall and the structure's got spunk. People might look at a wall with a tasteful mural and think, "I sure do wish there were more walls like that in my neighborhood; what a beauty!" And then the wall can stop taking anti-depressants. The mural—from the French word mur meaning wall—works like a French tickler to the sad, sad wall. Hey, everyone needs some love, even inert object.

mal — BAD

[mahl] (n. m.) With all world's evil, it's unsurprising that mal, the French word for bad, shows up all over the Anglican world. But it makes one hopeful to know it's mostly associated with things we're trying to fix. We send food to the Third World to help malnourished children. We strip doctors of licenses when they're guilty of malpractice. We teach women about prenatal care to avoid malformations. The English prefix (a full word in French) even shows up in that tropical disease we guard travelers about: malaria, which literally means bad air.

merçi — THANKS

[mehr-SEE] (n. m.) The man's clearly not a fiend. He was loved by puppies & babies, brought food to the homeless, raised six orphans and donated freely to charity but he made a mistake—and took a man's life. All considered, Judge showed mercy and sentenced him lightly. It's as if he was rewarded, gifted or thanked. Although Anglicized with an added y, the French word merçi means thanks. And if you can't remember that, you can always think that if someone really wanted to thank you, they could always give you a Mercedes (taken from plural Spanish for mercy).