Ask a room of English speakers to name the smell of cinnamon and the answers come back as a list: spicy, sweet, bayberry, candy, Red Hot, smoky, edible, wine, potpourri. Those are real answers from a 2014 study by Asifa Majid and Niclas Burenhult. Asked to name colors, the same people were brief. Their answers for smells ran about five times as long.
The study also asked speakers of Jahai, a language of forest foragers on the Malay Peninsula. They named smells as briefly and as consistently as colors. Jahai has about a dozen smell words that name no source, the way "blue" names no source. The one I keep returning to is cŋɛs. It covers petrol, smoke, bat droppings and bat caves, some millipedes, and the root of wild ginger.
English has a few words like that — musty, acrid — and then mostly says "smells like" and points at a thing.
The usual way to tell this is as a story about precision. What interests me is the claim inside the word. A color term is a standing agreement that unlike things match. "Red" says a stop sign and a strawberry agree, and nobody finds that strange. Cŋɛs says the same about a petrol can and a millipede. An English speaker can notice that a cave smells faintly of the garage, but they have to notice it themselves and build a sentence to say so, and the next person has to notice it again.
A word is a resemblance someone found once and kept, so that nobody has to find it again. English kept very few of those for the nose. Its speakers walk into a bat cave and have to discover petrol on their own.