A Timeline of Botanical Naming
Before Latin names and botanical textbooks, people named plants the way we name anything – by it’s physical characteristics, where we encounter it and what we do with it. Think about the common name of Marshmallow – this is the mallow flower from the marshes. These names came from lived experience, shaped by place, language and culture. One group might call yarrow “soldier’s woundwort.” Another might know it as “nosebleed plant.” Both are accurate in their own way. These weren’t just labels. They were instructions, medicine, warnings being conveyed in the names.
But these systems weren’t standardized. And when communities with different languages and land-based knowledge tried to communicate across distance, things got messy. If you’re treating an infection and the plant you reach for isn’t the same one someone else meant, the outcome could be dangerous. People as people do, had a desire to standardize, organize, and make order of the botanical world.
Early Monastic Apothecaries and Medieval Naming Traditions
After the fall of the Roman Empire, monasteries became the primary institutions preserving plant knowledge in Europe. From around 500 CE through the late Middle Ages, monks maintained herb gardens, copied classical medical texts, and cared for the sick. The Rule of St. Benedict, written in the early 500s, included the care of the ill as part of monastic life. Healing was part of the spiritual and daily rhythm.
By the 800s, Charlemagne issued the Capitulare de Villis, a decree requiring certain medicinal plants to be grown on royal lands and in monasteries. These included fennel, sage, rosemary, and poppies. Over time, monastic infirmaries developed into structured apothecaries. When you see officinalis in a plant name today, like Melissa officinalis (lemon balm) or Althaea officinalis (marshmallow), it’s a reference to those early monastic apothecaries. A plant labeled officinalis was part of the official stock of the officina – the apothecary storeroom.
Folk names from this period also reflected practical use. The word wort meant medicinal plant. Woundwort, liverwort, lungwort, motherwort. Names like self-heal, bone-set, and heal-all gave clear, direct instruction. They didn’t rely on authority or classification. They reflected what people did with the plant and what they expected from it.
Many names even now still hold a lot of information:
officinalis – used in the “official” apothecary
wort – medicinal herb
alba – white
rubra – red
sylvestris – woodland
arvensis – field
vulgaris – common
aquatica – water-growing
montana – mountain-dwelling
odorata – fragrant
1500s to 1600s
Early European herbalists and botanists began cataloging plants using Latin. Latin was the language of science and medicine at the time. Botanists like Leonhart Fuchs and John Gerard described plants in long Latin phrases, a kind of “polynomial” system. These names acted more like short descriptions – Mentha floribus spicatis foliis oblongis serratis (“mint with spiked flowers and oblong, serrated leaves”) – which weren’t exactly convenient to remember or use.
1753
The turning point came in the 18th century, when Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus introduced a simplified naming system in his 1753 work Species Plantarum. He proposed a binomial format: two Latin names, the first indicating the genus (a group of related species), and the second identifying the specific species. Achillea millefolium, for example, grouped the plant under the genus Achillea and described its finely divided leaves – “millefolium” meaning “a thousand leaves.” This binomial system quickly became the global standard and is still used today.
1800s to 1900s
As European scientists applied Linnaeus’ system across the world, they renamed plants that already had names. Names that… had meaning that were part of land-based knowledge systems passed down over generations. Indigenous names weren’t just swapped out, they were often ignored completely and we lost a lot of knowledge in this change.
In many Indigenous cultures across the world, plant names carry ecological information, spiritual roles, seasonal cues, harvesting rules, and relational context. A plant might be named for the conditions in which it grows, the animal it resembles, or the way it should or should not be used. These systems are often holistic and practical, tied directly to survival and cultural continuity – a way to pass down knowledge through generations.
By the 20th century, naming plants became a formal process. To name a species, you had to publish a Latin description, store a specimen in an herbarium, and follow strict international rules. The power to name became centralized, controlled by scientific institutions, almost all of them in the Global North.
2000s to Today
Now we’re seeing another shift. DNA sequencing has revealed that many plants grouped together based on how they look are not actually closely related. Genetic analysis has reshaped plant families, redrawn genus boundaries, and led to a wave of reclassification.
Several medicinal plants have been affected:
- Rosemary was once Rosmarinus officinalis. It’s now Salvia rosmarinus, part of the sage genus.
- Mahonia, known for its use in Oregon grape root, has been folded into Berberis by many taxonomists.
- Eleuthero, often called Siberian ginseng, is no longer considered a true ginseng and is classified as Eleutherococcus senticosus.
- Skullcap species have been reorganized based on genetics rather than appearance.
- Lobelia and mullein, despite their overlapping respiratory uses, belong to entirely different plant families.
These changes make sense in a scientific context. We’re trying to build a taxonomy that reflects evolutionary relationships. But it still begs the question – what happens when we prioritize one naming system over others? I see the importance of both having standardized names but also see the loss of a lot of information when we loose common names. As herbalists, plant lovers, or even just people who care about language and land, it’s important to remember that naming is not neutral. The words we use carry history. They reflect values. And in the case of plants, they often reflect who had the power to publish and be heard.
The Latin names are useful. I use them all the time. But they’re only one part of the story. When we lose access to Indigenous plant names, we lose access to knowledge – knowledge about place, time, use, ethics, and relationship. That’s why I, as an herbalist not a Botanist often use common names still and strive to learn the many names that a plant has been called.
If you’re into this kind of history and the messy, layered way humans and plants shape each other, subscribe to my social media and newsletter – this is the stuff I like to do the most. 
