I am motivated by the parable of the elephant.

Because I agree with you.

Because (I think) this is why we write. Many of us.

You know the parable, right? Several blind men (men, because who would be so arrogant as to assume that their point of reference was the only correct one, but a man) touch different parts of an elephant and go on to describe it as like a snake, or like a tree trunk, or whatever. We (wise, pereceptive readers that we are) know what an elephant is, because we can see it for what it is, in truth. Sucks not to have our vision, right?

Okay, maybe it’s a bad parable. But it is an example.

(I apologize, here, for stepping into your train of comments about definition. I truly am pedantic and self-absorbed.)

We write, I think, because the world — none of it, from the smallest mote to the whole of the infinite universes — cannot be defined.

Everything is “indefinable”.

We all have “definitions”, though. Terms we live by. (As you note, “love” has a dictionary definition.) We, each of us, has particular phrases or attitudes or tendencies or default assumptions that help us get through our lives with only the amount of friction we can tolerate.
We let these “definitions” slide by because we have to, but we sense the conflict inside us. It has become popular to call it “cognitive dissonance”. (Not exactly what I mean.) Our internal self niggles away at the conflict, but, mostly, we let it go. We weasel away from the pursuit of our own thoughts.

We write when we no longer have a choice. The definitions work, but we can no longer tolerate them. Not the friction of them, not any part of them. We cast them out.

We leave defining for describing; and when that doesn’t work, analogizing.

Similization (I love making up real words).

Poetry.

Sometimes, that works. We manage to say what we mean, and someone else understands. Indefinable.