The word 'flitter' is correct and usable in written English.
It is a verb that means to move quickly and lightly in a fluttering or flickering manner. It can also be used as a noun to refer to something that flitters. Examples: - The butterfly flittered from flower to flower, its colorful wings a blur. - The leaves of the trees flittered in the wind. - The fireflies flittered about in the summer night. - The thoughts flittered through her mind, making it hard to concentrate. - The flitter of excitement in his eyes was contagious, and soon everyone was laughing and dancing.
Once in a while she felt a flitter against her foot, like a fish, but it wasn't a fish.
Every beam of slanting light, every breath of wind, every flitter of movement revealed something unseen.
The only signs that something awful had happened here were the thicket of news trucks and the flitter of police lights under the marquee of the darkened theater in the distance.
Sharapova broke Garcia's serve twice, at 4-2 and 4-4, and the feel-good vibe among the French fans seemed to flitter out of the stadium on the swirling breeze.
Local bestubbled indy types flitter in and out, grumbling over shots of rakia, presumably plotting a revolution (or discussing Pete Doherty's chord progressions, you can't be sure).
At this point I flitter off to Paul Sackey, who is practically reclining in a plastic seat, his sandaled feet up on a chair in front of him.
As attention flitters between the lecture and the laptop, iPad or mobile-phone screen, professors see more of their students' scalps than the whites of their eyes.
An unpredictable 20-year-old prone to depression, his public persona somehow flitters between unstable sociopath and loveable goofball.
More than once, while I was in Fort Myers, I heard a rumor that the Yankees' owner, George Steinbrenner, fed up with watching his high-priced stars flail helplessly at Wakefield's flittering moths, had ordered his legions to produce a knuckleballer of their own.
But then again I do not care, all is vanity, and many times I think I am nothing but a big swishing gurgling pumping clock, walking backwards and forwards along the road to Bellingen each day, spring, summer, flies, moths, dragonflies, all fluttering flittering tiny clocks, a mist of clocks, each moment closer to oblivion.
Treem's script is filled with understated Ibsen-like theches; the Norwegian master's influence flitters along the edges of the dialogue and the action and then disappears, but not for good.
